


Promise What You Will

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dorks, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 45,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Briony Cousland learned of her engagement when Alistair announced it to the Landsmeet. Now she has to convince the Ferelden court - and herself - that she's in love with her best friend.





	1. After the Blight

The gathered nobles of Ferelden looked like a particularly gaudy field of flowers, Briony thought, or a flock of brightly coloured birds. She decided on the second - flowers didn't flap about so much, or screech and chatter. 

“Smile, sister,” Fergus said in an undertone. 

“I thought I was,” she muttered. 

“Then I shudder to think what your frown looks like.”

“If you've forgotten, brother, I'll gladly remind you later.” She fixed what she hoped was a smile to her face, although it felt more like a grimace. 

She wasn't just the Hero of Ferelden any more. Nor even the sister of the Teyrn of Highever. No, Briony Cousland would need the affections of the court more than either of those titles could grant her. So she gritted her teeth, and smiled. 

At last the great doors began to swing open, and a hush fell over the assembly. Briony found herself smoothing down the blue and white silk of her dress, fighting the urge to tug at the fabric constricting her throat. Even at home in Highever she'd felt more natural in leathers or soft breeches. Now, after a year of trudging through mud and dirt and snow, getting spattered in blood and ichor and Maker knew what else, she raged against the corset they had forced upon her. 

Forced? No. You chose this cage, she reminded herself. And it's not too late to fly away. 

When she raised her eyes there he was, walking up the aisle as if he were heading to his funeral and not his coronation. When he caught her eye he grinned nervously, and she returned a smile that for once felt genuine. 

Alistair Theirin. Her Grey Warden colleague. Her companion through the Blight. Her best friend, and her soon-to-be king. 

Her future husband. 

 

“I'm so sorry, Bri.” He'd sought her out after the landsmeet, his guilty brown eyes so puppyish she wanted to scratch behind his ear until he felt better. “I'm so sorry,” he repeated. “I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. I just…panicked. You can say no. I don't need to pick a queen right away, after all. I was just scared that Eamon would still expect me to marry Anora, and I just can't…” He trailed off, his shoulders drooping. 

She'd thought of her parents. Certainly, they'd married for love, but the same hadn't been expected of her unless she'd been lucky enough to fall in love with someone of the same or higher station. When they were alive she'd have leapt at the chance to wed a man she could laugh with, a man she knew she could live with day after day and still count as a friend. Better yet, a man who respected her opinion and her abilities. 

Such a man was rare among the nobility. Love, attraction, these things could come with time. He wasn't an unattractive man. But perhaps easily manipulated, in the wrong hands… 

“Alistair.” She'd taken his hands, the touch unfamiliar to both of them. “If I say yes, I can change my mind…can't I?”

Relief washed over his face. “Of course. I swear it.” He frowned. “But can you do me a small favour? If you do, could you let me know before we're married?”

Married. The absurdity had hit both of them at the same time and before they knew it they were doubled over with laughter. 

This could work, she thought. 

 

“Soooo,” Alistair said. “King.”

“Your Grace.” Briony curtsied. “You remember Fergus?”

“Oh Maker, please don't.” Alistair reached to run a hand through his hair, wincing when he hit the unfamiliar crown. “I mean…yes, Teyrn Cousland, of course. Please don't curtsey.”

“I wasn't planning on it, Your Grace.” Her brother offered a small bow instead. “And please, call me Fergus.” He waggled his eyebrows at Briony. “I understand we are to be family, after all.”

“Oh.” Alistair looked contrite. “I'm so sorry, I really should have asked your permission, shouldn't I? I mean at the time, we weren't sure you were alive, but now here you are…”

“Don't you dare,” Briony warned him, and Fergus shrugged in mock helplessness. 

“As you see, Your Grace, my sister speaks for herself.”

“I'm aware of that, believe me.” Alistair smiled, his eyes gleaming with a touch of…was it pride? Briony was alarmed to feel a blush creeping over her face. It was the Maker-damned corset’s fault, she knew it - but Alistair was blushing too, and he certainly wasn't wearing a corset. “What are your plans now, Teyrn, um, Fergus?”

“I must return to the estate in Highever. The lands were largely untouched by the Blight, but Howe’s occupation…” He cleared his throat. 

“I understand,” Alistair said hurriedly. “I'm deeply sorry for your loss.” His eyes flickered to Briony. “Both of you.”

“I'd like to go with him, my lord. For a short while. By your leave.” Before she could catch herself, she curtsied again. 

“Maker's breath, Bri, you of all people can call me Alistair! And for the love of Andraste will you stop curtseying!”

“It's the dress!” she protested. “I swear, a couple of hours in this thing and I can't stop curtseying. I'll be simpering next.”

Alistair laughed, loud enough for nearby nobles to turn their heads in interest. “We'd better get you out of it, then! Oh.” He turned a deep shade of pink. “I mean…I didn't mean…”

Briony discreetly elbowed Fergus in the ribs, wiping the growing smirk from his face. “On that note, Your Grace, we should leave you to speak with your subjects. Even the future Queen - “

“Princess-Consort,” interrupted Briony. 

“Queen,” Alistair insisted. 

“Regardless, we must not monopolise your time.” Fergus bowed deeply. “We will speak again before we leave, I am sure.”

“If I can take out this foot that seems to be lodged in my mouth, count on it,” the king muttered. “Off you go, then. The vultures are beginning to circle.”

“Later, my lor- Alistair.” Briony favoured him with a low, deliberate curtsey. “Oh, curse this dress! I can't wait to get out of it.”

“That was cruel,” Fergus remarked as they walked away, the smile in his eyes taking the sting from his words. 

“I know,” she said ruefully. “But look at his face.” When she glanced back Alistair still watched after them, open-mouthed. She couldn't help but grin, and was relieved to see him return the smile, albeit with a shake of his head. 

“You're terrible,” she saw him mouth before the crowd closed around them. 

“He makes you smile,” her brother observed. 

“Of course. He's my friend.” But the smile lingered. 


	2. Castle Cousland

The carriage began to bump and rattle as soon as they left Denerim, and would likely continue all the way to Highever. Briony concentrated on not biting her tongue when they went over the particularly large ruts. 

“You should talk to your lord husband about maintaining the kingdom’s roads,” Fergus said with a smirk. 

“He's not my husband. But I'm sure it's on the list, right next to rebuilding after the Blight and avoiding the biggest famine we've seen in centuries.”

“You're in a fine mood this morning, sister.”

She sighed. “Is there a reason why we're riding in this death trap and not just travelling horseback like normal people?”

“You're not ‘normal people’ any more,” he reminded her. “You're the future Queen, and you must be protected.”

Her eyes blazed in annoyance. “I'm a Grey - “

“Warden, I know. The Hero of Ferelden. Do you really want to be surrounded by adoring crowds everywhere you go?”

“You overestimate my popularity,” Briony muttered. 

“No, sister, you underestimate it. Don't fear, I'm sure the kingdom will adore you less when they get to know you better.”

She satisfied herself with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She knew her brother well enough to see that his good-natured needling covered a pain few but she could understand. 

“You're doing it again,” he remarked. 

Her hand, which had moved unbidden to touch her face, shot back to her lap. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Fergus,” she said primly. 

“I'm sure you don't.”

Briony shook her head and pulled the curtain aside to watch the landscape roll by. The fabric hid her smile from Fergus. If it brought the glint of humour back into his eyes, he could joke at her expense as much as he wished. 

Alistair had seen them off, and of course the court hangers-on had to crowd around and watch. He had leaned down awkwardly, thinking to give her a kiss goodbye, and just as awkwardly she had offered her cheek. But at the last moment she had panicked - what if he meant to kiss her on the lips? They were, after all, betrothed. She had turned just in time for his kiss to brush the corner of her mouth, and they had parted flustered and embarrassed. 

When she closed her eyes she could still feel him there, the warmth of his skin, the unexpected softness of his lips. 

 

“I hired some help in the town, m’lord Teyrn.We've cleaned up as best we can. M’lady.” The nervous steward had been a stranger to them both until a week ago, hired from among the refugees that still thronged around Denerim. “It was a right mess, though. Begging your pardon.” 

“Thank you, Dedrick.” Judging from Fergus’s expression, it was only now that the full extent of the damage had become obvious to him. The team’s efforts were visible from the broken furniture and torn tapestries adorning the courtyard, piled as neatly as the men could arrange them. 

Dedrick followed Briony’s gaze. “Sorry about that, M’lady. I thought to burn any rubbish, but I didn't want to destroy anything might be valuable. To you, I mean.”

“Thank you,” she echoed. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“We'll take a look around for the moment,” Fergus told the steward. “Then perhaps something to eat?”

He bowed. “Of course, m’lord. I haven't found a cook yet, I'm sorry to say, but we have the pantry well stocked now. There's bread, cheese, fruit - “

“That will be fine,” said Fergus, his tone politely dismissing the man. 

“He's done well.” With her boot, Briony poked at the splintered remains of a table. “I'd be happy to burn just about anything they touched, but of course it's up to you now.”

“You look pale,” her brother observed. “Are you alright?”

She smiled wanly. “Are you?”

“No,” he admitted. “No, I don't suppose I am.”

 

They took their dinner in the great hall, seated at a long bench below where their father's portrait once hung. Dedrick had apologised continuously for the simple food and the bare state of the hall, until Briony had to remind him gently that they were both veterans of the Blight and well used to much rougher conditions. 

She couldn't keep from glancing at the huge double doors from time to time, roughly patched with planks where the timber had been hacked to splinters. 

“Ser Gilmore wouldn't leave, you know,” she finally said. “Not while the doors still stood. I often wondered if Duncan would have taken him too. Surely two warden recruits would have been better than one.”

“He was a good man.”

“He was.” A memory came unbidden into her head. “We kissed once, you know.” It was perhaps an inappropriate time to tell her brother, but it served to lighten the mood. Fergus smiled.

“You kissed him, you mean,” he guessed. 

“Yes, but he didn't stop me. Not immediately, anyway.”

“Poor boy.”

“He liked me!” she protested. “But evidently not enough to anger his liege lord and throw away his knighthood.”

“Just as well one of you was sensible, then.”

“Yes, well.” Briony’s smile faded. “It wouldn't have mattered in the end.”

“To Ser Gilmore.” Fergus raised his goblet. 

“To Ser Gilmore.”

They drank, then fell back into silence for a while. 

“And your warden king?” he asked finally. “Does he like you?”

She shrugged. “Enough to want to marry me.”

“And you like him well enough to marry him, it seems.”

“Look…” Briony set her goblet on the table with more force than she had intended. “We care about each other. When we met it was just after - you know. And then Ostagar, and the Blight. It was no time to be thinking about…any of that.”

“And now?” Fergus refilled her goblet, then waited patiently for her answer. She sighed. 

“You barely met Oriana before you were married, right? But you were happy.”

“We were.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - “

“It's fine.” He cleared his throat loudly. “We have to keep talking about them. Or it's as if they were never here.”

But they were here. Today they had stood in the room where he last saw his wife and child. Where Briony last saw them, lying in a pool of their own blood. Just over there, Gilmore died trying to secure her escape. She didn't see it, but she could imagine the hatchets breaking through the door, the armoured men pouring into the hall, the blades rising and falling…and Father, Mother kneeling in his blood, so much blood…she should have stayed. 

“Briony?” 

“I need air,” she muttered. “I'm sorry, Fergus.”

 

One night after leaving Lothering she had found herself walking away from camp, unable to bear the closeness of people around her. She'd sat on a nearby rock, looking up at the moon and breathing deep lungfuls of the night air. 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” she'd said finally. 

“I'm sorry.” Alistair came and sat down next to her. “I thought you might want to be alone.”

“But here you are.” 

“I can leave, if you - “

“No.” She'd leaned against him, wordlessly grateful when he wrapped an arm around her. And there he'd stayed, silent while her shoulders shook. When the last of her tears had dried, he'd offered her a hand up and walked her back to camp. 

 

She missed him, she realised, staring up at the moon. However confused her feelings might be, she would be happy to have his arm around her again. 

Instead she dashed away her tears. Fergus had lost his family too, but she was still alive. If talking about them was what he needed, then talk they would. Until she could picture Father's smile again without seeing his face twisted in pain, could remember Mother's voice without hearing her anguish as they begged her to flee. 

They would remember, and they would live. Just like she promised. 


	3. Time Apart

“You seem lost, Alistair.”

“I hope it's not that obvious.” He turned from his inspection of the garden bed. “Maker, it's good to see you, Wynne. I thought you might have headed off already.”

The mage smiled affectionately. “And miss the wedding? I wouldn't dream of it.” She closed the book she had been reading and patted the stone bench next to her. “Come and sit with me. I feel like we haven’t spoken in ages.”

Alistair sank down gratefully. “Well if you’re not a petitioner, or an ambassador, or Maker forbid, a tailor, we probably haven’t. I can’t tell you how good it is to see a friendly face.”

“But not, perhaps, the face you’d most like to see?”

“That’s true.” He scanned the gardens. “You haven’t seen Winston, have you? A servant said he was headed this way but I can’t seem to find him. A Mabari without a job to do can get into a world of trouble.”

“That’s not who I meant,” said Wynne, “but yes, I believe he found employment as an under-gardener. At least I assume that’s why he was digging up the spring bulbs.”

“Ah.” At least in front of Wynne he didn’t have to hide his amusement. “He misses his mistress, poor boy.”

The mage’s eyes were far too shrewd. “And is that a sentiment the two of you share?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “The last few days would have been so much easier if she was here. Briony was sweet-talking nobles while I was still hiding in the kennels with the hounds. And she’s got a way of cutting to the heart of things...I have to admit feeling a bit lost without her.”

“Is it just her diplomacy skills you miss?”

“Of course not! She’s a good friend.” He blushed. “And my future queen, of course.”

She smiled indulgently. “And how do you feel about that, Alistair?”

“The truth?”

“Of course.”

“Terrified.”

Wynne pealed with laughter. “Oh dear. But in a good way, I hope?”

“Can you be terrified in a good way?” he asked. 

“You tell me.”

Alistair considered this for a long time. “I suppose you can. It's just that…I'm so used to us being friends. Before joining the Wardens I didn't really have friends that weren't, you know…dogs. And if I felt anything for her when we first met - “

“Which you did,” Wynne guessed accurately. 

“Yes, I suppose I did. But then we were the last two Wardens in Ferelden, and she'd just lost her family, and I was grieving over Duncan and the others…and there was so much to do. Any feelings that weren’t strictly - friendly - had to be put aside, or travelling together would have been unbearable.”

The mage’s eyes creased in sympathy. “May I offer some advice, Alistair?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to,” he joked.

“That is true.” She placed a weathered hand on his arm. “Talk to each other, as much as you can. And make sure she knows she has your support. She may be more practiced than you at navigating politics, but you’re both still very young and she’s as alone here as you are, perhaps more so. Take her side, whenever you are able.”

“Talking shouldn’t be a problem. It’s always been knowing when to shut up I’ve struggled with.” Alistair exhaled deeply. “Thank you, Wynne.”

“That’s quite alright.” She picked up her book. “Now, go and rescue your garden beds from that terrible hound of yours.”

“I'll do my best.” Alistair grinned and departed, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. 

 

Briony had forgotten how good it felt to ride without a purpose, the coastal wind buffeting her face as the horse beneath her raced along the clifftops. Finally she wheeled to a halt, laughing with sheer joy.

“I’m not explaining to the king how you broke your neck,” Fergus called, pulling up behind her.

“The king knows I can handle myself,” she countered.

“You should have brought Winston with you.” He dismounted, giving his charger an affectionate rub on the nose. “He’d have enjoyed the chance to stretch his legs after being cooped up in the palace so long.”

“The palace grounds hardly count as ‘cooped up.’ And he wouldn’t have travelled well in the carriage. Besides…” Suddenly the sunny day held a chill that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “It would have confused him, to come back here and find everything so changed. He wouldn’t know anyone but you and me.”

Fergus was silent for a moment, watching the ocean where it crashed against the granite rocks. “You know, I’ve never known you to trust another person with that dog. Not even family.”

She shrugged. “He has Alistair well trained. It wouldn’t do to disrupt that.”

“When do you think you might head back?”

“Why?” She brushed the honey-blonde hair back from her face. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?”

“Not at all! But you have other duties in the capital. You can’t hide out here forever.”

“I’m not hiding!” she protested. “You still need my help. The castle is understaffed, half the farms are untenanted, the harvest has fallen behind...with so much fertile land lost across the country, we need workers more than ever. Not just labourers, but smiths, carpenters, armourers, weavers, soldiers...”

Fergus laughed. “Do you plan to do all that yourself, sister? Or have you some plan as to where we may come up with all these workers? We’re unlikely to get more volunteers from the town, and folk in the outlying villagers seem to have enough work of their own for now.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. The alienage.”

“The alienage?” Fergus gaped.

“Elven servants are nothing new,” she argued. “And you’ll find skilled people there. Able-bodied, when they’re fed and housed properly. Willing to work hard for fair pay.”

“Would the common folk accept elven farmers? Elven soldiers?”

“It’s your job to convince them, Fergus. Elves fought alongside us during the Blight. Times have changed - or they can, if you let them.”

He looked unconvinced. “Even so, would they want to leave the alienage? How would they feel about losing their skilled people to Castle Cousland?”

“It’s near enough for them to travel back and forth, if they wish it. There’s space enough to accommodate families, if not. As for how it will affect the alienage, you should speak with their hahren.”

“Their…?”

“Hahren,” she said firmly. “It’s the elder...a kind of leader of the community. You’ll need to learn these things, Fergus. The elves are your people too.”

“You have kept strange company in the past year, Briony.” Despite the reluctance in his words, Fergus looked at her with respect.

“This, from the man who was rescued and taken in by the Chasind,” she retorted. “I’ll come with you. There’s someone else I need to find, as well. Her name is Helena.”

“Do you have more to go on than that?”

“Only that her husband’s name was Jory. Ser Jory, from Redcliffe. He was killed at Ostagar.” It was the truth, she reasoned. “I need to make...restitutions, on behalf of the Grey Wardens. And she may even need employment. I’m not certain of her circumstances, to be honest.”

“I’d be happy for you to accompany me, sister. And I’m sure we can find this widow of yours - I’ll have Dedrick start making enquiries.”

“Thanks, Fergus.” Briony gathered the reins in her hand. “Now.” She grinned. “While we have this fine weather, we should find the beach and see how fast these horses can go! I’ll see you down there.”

She left Fergus scrambling to get back in the saddle, shaking his head. “Good luck, King Alistair,” he muttered.

 

The hated carriage was readied, the horses hitched and scraping impatiently at the cobblestones. Briony hugged her brother until he complained his ribs were breaking, then reluctantly let him go.

“It’s good to see the place busy again.” The castle was abuzz with activity, the new cook shouting orders at the frazzled kitchen servants over the ring of hammers on nails.

“Your doing.” Fergus smiled at the chaos. “We could still use help with the harvest.”

“I’ll make sure word gets around the refugees in Denerim. See if we can get some more skilled people sent up your way. If they can train the ones we have, better yet.” She gave him a final kiss on the cheek. “If you find the time, there’s a lovely young widow and her baby daughter I’m sure would be very happy to see you again.”

She was gratified to see him look flustered. “Well, yes. I’ll be very busy, I’m sure.”

“Not too busy to visit me, I hope?”

“Of course not, sister. I’ll be there to see you married.”

“Would you…” She gulped. “Do you think you could walk me down the aisle?”

His eyes filled with tears, and she was helpless to keep her own from falling as they embraced again. “I’d be honoured. They’d be so proud of you, Briony.”

“And you.” She drew back, retreating to the carriage before they both made a spectacle of themselves in front of the servants. “I’ll write to you when I make it to Denerim. And I want to be kept informed on how the new soldiers are progressing!”

“I’ll spare no detail!”

Briony waved from the carriage window, keeping her brother in sight until he was finally hidden by the curve of the road, and Castle Cousland vanished in the distance.


	4. Untouched

Despite hoping Alistair wouldn’t be there to greet her when she returned to Denerim - the journey had left her rumpled and travel-weary, and she would dearly like a bath first - she had to admit to a small pang of disappointment when she was met instead by Bann Teagan.

“Alistair is in a meeting with the Dwarven Merchants Guild," he apologised. “I'm sure he'll be very happy to have you back. For now he's instructed me to let you know that he'll see you at dinner, if he has to start a trade war to make it happen.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” she laughed.

“And all is well, back in Highever?” Teagan walked with her along the echoing corridors of the palace. “I heard there was some damage. It's a great shame - Castle Cousland has stood since the Divine Age, it's terrible to think that a man such as Rendon Howe…”

“Nothing permanent.” They paused outside her quarters. “The stones are still standing, just with fewer tapestries, and portraits. And people.”

Teagan winced. “I am sorry, Briony.”

“I didn't…there's nothing to apologise for, Teagan.” Maker, she shouldn't speak to people when she was this tired. “And he's dead now, so…”

“Yes, he is. And the world is a better place for it, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“I definitely don't.”

Teagan smiled. “We'll see you at dinner, then.” And with a bow, he departed.

There was a sense of homecoming in returning to her spacious rooms, even after Highever. This felt more like her life now, she realised with a jolt. Castle Cousland would always have a place in her heart, but it was too filled with ghosts for her to ever truly think of it as home again.

She sank into the prepared bath with a sigh, letting the hot water ease the aches of the long carriage ride. Then dressed for dinner, noticing that more clothes had appeared in her absence. She chose one of the simpler dresses, one she could fasten on her own.

Over the past year Briony had become unaccustomed to seeing her reflection. The girl in the mirror now seemed unfamiliar. Not - what had Howe called her, before she ran him through? “Bryce Cousland’s little spitfire”. But a woman, a stranger with serious grey eyes, wheat-coloured curls spilling over her shoulders.

At the last moment she twisted her hair into the style she was used to wearing - two braids pinned at the back and finished in an untidy bun. When she looked again she saw Briony Cousland, somewhat less regal-looking but more herself.

The dwarven delegation added a raucous element to the dining hall. All parties deemed their long talks a success and the ale flowed freely before the first course had even arrived. At his table on the dais Alistair found his eyes darting not to the entrance through which the food would arrive, but to the doors closest to the royal quarters. He fidgeted in his high-backed seat until Eamon fixed him with a stern glare.

Under the table, Winston whined softly. Then more loudly, his stubby tail beginning to thump on the floor.

Briony was here. Alistair stood clumsily, nearly upsetting his goblet in the process. Her eyes found his and she smiled, and for a second he forgot how to breathe.

The weeks in Highever had brought colour back to her face, and a sparkle in her grey eyes that had been missing since their last terrible battle with the archdemon. He was used to seeing her in leather armour that did little to hide the shape of her body, but the sight of her in a dusky rose-pink dress had an effect on him he hadn't quite expected. As she crossed the room the crowd fell quiet.

Briony raised her chin, aware of all the eyes upon her. Most of all Alistair’s eyes, brown and warm - he seemed glad to see her. Perhaps a little dazed, but she had no doubt the past few weeks had been taxing for him. She gathered her skirts as she climbed the dais and made her way to his side.

The court expected something of him, but he wasn't sure what. For lack of a better idea he took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of her knuckles. Her eyes widened in surprise, and when a few small cheers broke out at the far tables they both blushed. Luckily the servants chose that moment to emerge from the kitchen bearing steaming platters of food. The buzz of conversation resumed and the people's attention was drawn elsewhere.

“Briony.” Alistair’s voice was surprisingly husky. He released her hand and it felt suddenly cold where his warm fingers had touched her skin. “You don't know how glad I am to see you. It's been nothing but meetings, and negotiations, and petitions…I swear they would have driven me into an early grave if you came back a week later.”

“It's just as well I'm here to save you.” She took the empty seat by his side, scratching Winston's giant head where it immediately rested on her knee.

“You joke, but it's not far from the truth.” He waved off the servant that appeared at their side, pouring her wine himself. “Now, tell me about Highever.”

To her relief, it was as easy to talk to him as ever. She described the poor state of the castle and estate, and their attempts to fix things. How Fergus seemed quite taken with Jory’s young widow, and Alistair seemed pleased when she said the feeling might be mutual.

“I'll be happy if some good can come out of it,” he said. “Jory seemed like a good man.”

“She had family around her so she wasn't destitute. But she did seem…lonely? I don't want to push Fergus into anything, but I think they could be good for each other. Mother's not around to play matchmaker any more, so…”

“You don't want to use your newfound influence to throw some more exotic noblewomen his way?” Alistair teased.

“I want him to be happy,” she said firmly. “And I believe that's what Mother and Father would have wanted, too. He was lucky with one arranged marriage, but there are no guarantees.”

Alistair looked troubled. “And what about you, Bri? Are you - “

“A toast!” His words were interrupted by Bann Teagan’s slightly slurred voice. “To the King and his future bride, the Hero of Ferelden!” He caught their eyes and winked, raising his tankard.

“The King!” people cried. “The Hero of Ferelden!”

“To the Hero of Ferelden!” Alistair echoed, and Briony’s face turned a shade to match her dress as the entire gathering cheered.

“Don't you start,” she muttered. Then looked up, startled to find his fingertips on her cheek.

“Oh - I'm sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “You've got more freckles.”

Briony grimaced. “Oh, perfect. Fergus used to tease me horribly about my freckles.”

“Really?” Realising he was still touching her face, he dropped his hand to his side. “I like them.”

The sudden warmth in her lower belly took her by surprise. “I…well. Next time you should come to Highever with me. For Duncan.”

“Yes. I'd like that.” He found he wanted more than anything to touch her face again. To take that loose wisp of hair between his fingers and see if it felt as soft as it looked.

When dinner came to an end, he walked her back to her quarters, both of them a little flushed with wine.

“Will you join me in council tomorrow, Bri? I've managed to avoid being eaten alive so far, but I'd feel safer with you there to stop me from accidentally…starting a war, or something.”

“I'd be glad to.” On impulse, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

He could kiss her now. They were to be married, after all - what could be more natural? Instead he bowed deeply. “Good night, Hero of Ferelden.”

Alistair lingered for a moment after her door closed, tracing the smooth wood with his fingers. Not knowing that on the other side, Briony did the same.

 

“We should begin, Your Majesty.”

“We can't.” Alistair paced the length of the table. “She should be here by now. And where's Eamon?”

“Your Majesty…”

“I'll be back in a moment.” They couldn't very well go ahead without the king, could they? Briony said she'd be there, and it wasn't like her to forget an engagement.

He found her door shut, raised voices coming from within. At the sound of Briony's “No!” he burst inside.

“What's going on here?” Briony was seated on the edge of her bed, her face white and her robe clutched tightly around her. Several others were present, but it was Eamon who was the focus of his anger. “What in the Maker's name are you doing?”

“I am sorry, Alistair, but this is necessary.” Eamon’s expression was anything but apologetic.

“What, exactly, is necessary?”

“If you are to marry Lady Cousland, we must confirm that she is…intact.”

“Intact? What does that even - “ Alistair stopped, experiencing a range of emotions in quick succession. Shock, embarrassment, finally rage. “You cannot be serious!”

“It is law, Alistair. The king’s bride must be untouched, and it must be witnessed. By a healer, a Chantry priest and a scribe.”

“A _scribe?”_ he repeated, incredulous. Another glance at Briony showed her face pink with shame. Worse, her eyes were wide with fear. The knowledge that he'd put her in this position hit him like a fist to the gut. “This is not happening. I forbid it.”

“Alistair.” Eamon glowered. “I apologise that we didn't warn you of this, but if the legitimacy of the marriage is to be recognised - “

“You're married,” he snapped. “Did you make your wife go through this? Is your marriage considered _legitimate?”_

“I am not the king. There is the succession to consider. Anora was subject to the same - “

“And Rowan?”

The Arl’s lips thinned.

“I asked you a question, Eamon. Was your sister put through this…this…” Words failed him. “Before she married my father?”

“It was a different time,” Eamon insisted. “We were at war. They were fighting side-by-side for months, years before they were wed. But before that, every royal bride - “

“Right.” Alistair cut him short. “So one of these is your scribe? Which one?”

A thin-faced man stepped forward, clutching a roll of parchment in his ink-stained fingers.

“I want you to note what I say.”

“What is this, Alistair?“

“Quiet, Eamon. Are you ready?” The scribe nodded. “I, King Alistair Theirin, hereby state that Lady Briony Cousland of the Grey Wardens - “ He paused, taking a deep breath, “ - is not a virgin.”

The scribe glanced up for confirmation. Alistair nodded, studiously avoiding looking in Briony’s direction.

“What do you mean by this, Alistair?” If Eamon had been annoyed before, now he looked positively furious.

“I mean we lay together. Months ago.” He felt his ears reddening. “And many times since.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty…” the scribe interrupted, earning a fierce glare from Eamon. “But do you mean, at that time, Lady Cousland was…?”

“Intact?” Alistair spat. “Yes. I was the first. The only,” he clarified. “Satisfied, Eamon?”

“It is highly irregular - “

“Yes, well. We were at war, you know. Fighting side-by-side, and all that.”

“It will suffice.”

“Good. Now out! All of you!” He blocked Eamon’s path. “And Eamon, if you have any further ritual humiliation planned for Lady Cousland, you will speak to me first. _Do you understand?”_

“I understand, Your Majesty.” Arl Eamon bowed stiffly.

“Go.”

Finally they were alone. He sank down onto the bed, groaning into his hands. “Oh, Bri. I don't… I had no idea.”

“I don't know if I should thank you, or strangle you,” she said in a small voice.

“Strangulation seems appropriate.”

“This is so much more complicated than I thought.”

He chanced a look at her face. “If you want to change your mind now, I'd understand.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “I mean…no. Not if you don't.”

“I don't.” She wrung her fingers in her lap. “I am, for what it's worth. Intact, untouched, whatever you want to call it.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said vehemently. “You don't see them interrogating me.”

“It will matter, when it comes to…” Briony trailed off, blushing. “Thank you, Alistair. That was completely humiliating, but the alternative - it was very sweet of you.” She took his hand in his, gently squeezing his fingers. “So what do we do now?”

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we'll just have to act like we're having trouble keeping our hands off each other.”

She laughed. “I can do that, I suppose.”

 _Me too,_ he thought, looking in her bright eyes. _I can definitely do that._


	5. Doubts

The weeks went by too fast. Alistair threw himself into his duties as King, and while Briony offered as much counsel and assistance as she could, she was happy to see his growing aptitude for governance. She went with him on his frequent journeys into the city, supervising the reconstruction efforts and charming his subjects wherever they went.

“They adore you, you know,” she teased him.

“Me? It's you they come to see, Hero.”

Under Eamon’s watchful eye they exchanged knowing smiles and furtive touches. It was all part of the act, Briony knew, but she came to anticipate the brush of his hand in passing, the press of his knee against hers beneath the table.

It became such second nature that one day when nobody was around to see, his hand found the small of her back for just a second. It was nothing remarkable in itself, but the shiver that ran down her spine almost made her gasp aloud.

“Alistair, I - “ There were a thousand things she needed to say to him, but she couldn't find the right words. “I thought I'd take Winston for a run in the garden. Would you like to join me?”

“Sure, we have time.” Hearing his name, Winston was already prancing in small circles. “Let's get some more freckles on that nose of yours.”

“That's it.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “The wedding’s off. You'll have to marry Anora after all.”

“Ugh, don't even joke about it.” When he smiled, it started a nervous flutter in her belly. 

 

Out in the gardens, she trailed a few steps behind him. During the Blight she'd become used to seeing him in heavy plate most of the time - it was a change, but not an unwelcome one, to see him in something other than armour. The dark breeches that showed off his finely shaped legs, his warrior's build evident beneath his richly embroidered doublet. It wasn't what he would have chosen to wear, given the option, but she had to admit it suited him.

The day was warm. He'd pushed up his shirt sleeves and the sunlight caught the fine golden hair on his arms. Lately small details had been driving her to distraction - his calloused palms, his broad shoulders, the olive skin above the neck of his shirt just there that begged to be touched…

“Would you like to?”

“Would I - sorry, what?”

“Visit Highever, after the wedding.” Alistair frowned. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine. I mean yes.” Briony smiled brightly. “I'd like that very much.”

He looked at her face, puzzled. “You seem distracted.”

She idly traced her fingers against a moss-covered wall. “I am, a little. I was thinking about…Amaranthine.”

“Really? What about it?”

“We should find out what state it's in. Make it ready for the Wardens.” In truth, she had been giving it some thought. “The order in Ferelden still needs rebuilding.”

“Oh.” He considered this, scratching his jaw. “I don't know how much time I can give the Wardens now. Not while, you know, being King…”

“I know,” she said. “But I'm still a Warden, too.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Look…the Orlesian Wardens will be here before long. They still have a lot of questions - about how we both survived, among other things. Could we put off any big decisions until after that?”

“I suppose we can wait,” she said, surprised. “Until we know what we're dealing with.”

Alistair's easy smile returned. “I'm glad that's settled. Now,” he looked around, “where did that dog go?”

Briony followed him, feeling anything but settled.

 

Before Alistair, Ser Gilmore was the last real friend she'd had. Growing up she'd had little in common with the noble girls her own age - too much a tomboy, too interested in swordplay and archery, stories of heroes and battles, dragons and Grey Wardens.

She was lucky to have parents who saw a girl with martial aptitude as a blessing and not a source of embarrassment. Luckier still, that they trusted her to train alongside the boys without worrying overmuch for her virtue.

Not that they had much to fear on that front. The highborn boys were sent away to squire for highborn knights, just as her brother Fergus had been. The common boys would train to be soldiers in her father's employ and were afraid to even talk to her.

Then came Gilmore.

He was near her own age. Not the equal of a Teyrn’s daughter, but close enough in station to allow a tentative friendship to develop.

She'd been twelve and a flat-chested tomboy when he arrived at Castle Cousland, a gangly redhead of thirteen. A few years later her friend was a broad-shouldered seventeen-year-old who made the house maids giggle and simper. And she was sixteen, a beauty set to rival Eleanor Cousland in her youth and, she knew now, with more independence than sense.

So she'd kissed him. It hadn't been planned, not exactly. At least not down to a specific time and place. That had been the stables in the end, Briony surprising him in a shadowed stall while he hung up his tack.

She'd kissed him, and he'd frozen in shock. Then his lips had parted, his arms encircling her waist.

It was glorious, and it had ended as quickly as it began. He'd pushed her away, gently, refusing to meet her eyes.

That had hurt, but not as much as the loss of his friendship. After that day he was always polite, deferential as a knight in her father's service should be. And he never allowed himself to be alone with her again.

 

 _This is different,_ she told herself, alone in her room. _You're equals. He's asked you to marry him, for Andraste’s sake! People will expect you to be close. They expect you already are._

But she couldn't let go of that feeling of loss, of being sixteen and without her best friend in the world, seeing him every day across an invisible gulf.

Alistair's friendship meant too much to her to risk spoiling it with more complicated feelings.

What choice was there, then? She must break off the engagement. She'd rejoin the Wardens, Alistair would find some other noble girl, one who might even give him children. He'd be relieved, once he realised it was for the best.

Her mind made up, Briony made her way to the King’s quarters.


	6. Old Friends

“There you are! I was just coming to find you.” Alistair met her in the corridor, grinning from ear to ear. “I've got a surprise.”

“Oh. What is it?” she asked.

“A _surprise.”_ He winked. “Come on. My rooms.”

Briony followed, a little nervously. “Actually I was just coming to talk to you.”

“Great, we just opened the wine.” Alistair opened his door with a flourish.

“We?”

The King’s rooms were vast and richly furnished, hung with warmly-coloured tapestries depicting hunting scenes. In the sitting room, plush chairs surrounded a crackling fire, and seated in two of those chairs were a red-headed woman and a blond-haired elf.

“Briony!” Leliana leapt from her seat to envelop her in a hug. “It has been too long. Six months? Seven?”

“I think closer to five, my dear Leliana.” Zevran smiled across the rim of his goblet. “How fares the most beautiful Grey Warden in Ferelden?”

“Hey, now,” Alistair protested. “Grey Warden, standing right here.” He poured a generous goblet of wine and handed it to her.

“I'm fine,” she said, sinking into a chair that was every bit as comfortable as it looked. “But where have the two of you been? And what brings you here now?”

“Well, I travelled back to Orlais for a short time.” Leliana stretched her legs out in front of her, showing off a pair of delicately beribboned shoes. “I just returned to Denerim yesterday, and I found this one,” with a nod to Zevran, “emerging from a room in the Gnawed Noble with no less than _three_ \- “

“What can I say,” the elf interrupted. “The women - and men - of Denerim have been most grateful for my role in the Blight. I have been positively inundated with, ahem, gratitude.”

“Say no more,” said Alistair. “Please.”

“And the royal couple?” Leliana teased. “Counting down until the happy day, no?”

Briony didn't miss Alistair's pleased smile. _Was_ he counting down the days? Could it be this was what he really wanted? Before she had a chance to process the thought, she realised they were waiting on her answer.

“Yes,” she said, too hurriedly. “We can't wait.”

“Wait?” Zevran smirked lasciviously. “Is it necessary to wait? You are both adults, as it were.”

“Maker's…I meant the wedding, Zevran.”

“Ah, that is a relief. It is not healthy, you know, to deny the needs of one's body.”

Alistair sighed. “It is such a pleasure to have you back with us, Zevran. Really, I don't know how we ever managed without you.”

Leliana looked searchingly at Briony, her eyes a touch too sharp. “I am glad we are here. We have much to catch up on, I am sure.” This was delivered with a pointed quirk of her brow.

“Have you eaten?” Alistair asked, oblivious. “I can send for some food. Who feels like cheese?”

It was the small hours of the morning when they finally departed, leaving an unsightly number of empty bottles on the small table. In between they discussed Briony’s trip to Highever, the beginnings of Leliana’s investigation into the darkspawn, and Zevran gave them enough tales of his recent conquests to bring down half the noble houses in Ferelden if they had had a mind to. Finally Briony couldn't stifle her yawns any longer.

“Alistair,” Zevran chided. “It seems you have been wearing out your bride-to-be. Save some energy for the wedding night, my dear Wardens.”

“The wedding is in three weeks, no?” Leliana deflected smoothly. “We will be around until then. We should go out one night, have some fun, the four of us.”

“I don't know how much fun it would be,” Alistair said gloomily. “Unless you like your nights out to involve a host of retainers and bodyguards.”

“Now that begins to sound like a party,” Zevran drawled, but Leliana ignored him.

“We are resourceful people, Alistair,” she said with a glint in her eye. “Leave it to me. Briony, dear, may I see you tomorrow? I think you could use some female company, yes?”

Briony smiled tiredly. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I should have time free in the afternoon, if you'd like to call by.”

“I will do so. Now Zevran, have you some noble’s bed to warm tonight, or shall I walk you back to the tavern?”

“Ah, Leliana. I thought you would never ask.” Dragging his leather boots from the table, the elf stumbled to his feet.

“Not happening,” she said succinctly. “Good night, Your Majesties.”

Even knowing they wouldn't be far away, Briony was surprised how sad she was to see them go. Friendship uncomplicated by courtship was something she'd sorely missed, and she hadn't known it until tonight.

“Bri?”

“I'll see you in the morning, Alistair.” She squeezed his hand, not missing the faint catch in his breath. “I'll make my own way back.”

Did it have to be complicated, she wondered, looking up into his kind face? Couldn't they just carry on being friends, and…whatever else might grow between them?

Suddenly she missed her mother so badly it ached. She had spent so much time avoiding talk of marriage, and now it was too late. What she wouldn't give for Eleanor's counsel, or even Oriana's. 

Anyone, to make her feel less unsure. Less alone. 


	7. A Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found this chapter absolute hell to write for some reason - seriously, like pulling teeth! I hope it was worth the pain.

The runner caught her taking a break from a particularly mind-numbing meeting about grain tax. He was an elven boy who looked no more than fifteen, new to the job and understandably nervous in her presence.

“A Mistress Leliana to see you, My Lady. Your Majesty.”

“Not Your Majesty yet. Jacan, was it?” She smiled, hoping to ease his discomfort. “Where can I find her?”

“Oh. Sorry, Your - My Lady. In the gardens.”

“I will find her. Thank you, Jacan.”

“Good day, My Lady.” He bowed and dashed off.

“What did you do to scare the boy like that? Kill an archdemon?” Alistair looked after the retreating elf in puzzlement.

“That probably doesn't help. Nor does being born human and noble, I suspect.” Briony touched his arm, partly for Arl Eamon’s benefit and partly because she wanted to. “I've got Leliana waiting in the garden. Call on me if things get too…taxing, won't you?”

He rolled his eyes. “You are hilarious, you know that? Say hello for me.”

She felt unaccountably nervous as she made her way to the gardens, Winston padding silently at her heels. Leliana was a dear friend. In the year they'd spent travelling together they had grown close - and she had felt at times that perhaps the bard would have liked to have been closer. It made the prospect of talking about her relationship with Alistair even more awkward.

She spied the familiar red head from across the grounds, bent towards a rose bush. Leliana glanced up as she neared, a joyous smile spreading across her face. “Briony! And you brought my darling Winston. You know, in Val Royeaux right now it's the fashion to carry small dogs around in purses. I imagine we'd need a rather large purse for you, wouldn't we boy?”

Winston cocked his head to the side, whining quizzically.

“I'm surprised you can smile like that after the night we had,” Briony joked.

“Please,” the bard said, embracing her warmly. “I wouldn't be much use at the Game if I was slowed down by a little wine. Now.” She took Briony by the shoulders. “We should talk, no? Perhaps some place more private?”

“I'd like to stay outside while the weather’s nice, I think. But I know somewhere there are fewer people.”

She led them around a corner of the palace to where an ornamental bridge spanned a small pond, red and gold and white fish gleaming just below the surface.

“Oh, aren't they darling?” Leliana exclaimed.

“Winston thinks so.” The dog plonked himself down at the water’s edge, following the fishes’ movements with rapt attention. “I think he could do that all day long.”

There was a bench by the side of the pond, and here they sat in silence for a moment, basking in the thin sunlight.

“So,” Leliana finally said. “Tell me about Alistair.”

Briony shrugged. “You know Alistair.”

“Now, don't do that,” she chided. “Something troubles you, I can tell.”

Briony took a long time to answer, watching ripples spread where a fish had broken the water’s surface. “He's wonderful,” she said. “He's kind, and funny, and…”

“And attractive, yes?” Leliana said with a knowing smile.

She laughed. “Maker, yes.”

“So what is the problem?”

“He's my closest friend. I don't want marriage, or…anything, to get in the way of that. I couldn't bear losing what we have.”

Leliana sighed. “By ‘anything’ you mean sex, no?”

Briony blushed. “I suppose I do.”

“Let me tell you something about - well, not marriage, I am no expert there. But relationships…if you are close, then intimacy should bring you closer still. It is not a distraction, or a complication to what you already have. You are friends, you are attracted to one another, and there is no obstacle to your being together - it is what the strongest relationships are made of.”

“Are you certain?” Briony gathered a fold of her dress, worrying the rich fabric between thumb and fingers. “What if…what if we're not any good at…you know.”

The bard laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, Briony! Everything takes practice - you know this. There will be some awkwardness in the beginning, but the two of you are no strangers to awkwardness, no?”

“That's one way of putting it…”

“Remember,” Leliana said. “Alistair is very good at following your lead. Don't be afraid to tell him what you want.”

Briony chewed her lip. “But what if I don't know what I want?”

“Oh, you'll work it out.” She said this with such confidence, it was difficult not to believe her. “But if you find yourself very lost, do not be afraid to ask my advice. Orlesians are, shall we say, less shy about these things.”

“Evidently.”

“But everything else so far, is…?”

“Everything else?” Briony asked. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Wait - are you saying - you have at least _kissed,_ haven't you?” Leliana looked at her in shock.

“No,” she confessed. “That's bad, isn't it?”

“Oh, blessed Andraste. Not bad, no, but…we need to do something about this. Leave it with me.”

“You’re making me nervous, Leliana…”

“No, it will be fun! Trust me.” The gleam in the bard’s eye left some doubt as to her trustworthiness. “Tomorrow. Before dinner, we will meet at Alistair’s rooms.”

“Why, what are we doing?”

“Oh, nothing very scandalous. We are just going to have that night out we talked about.” Leliana rose, giving Briony a swift kiss on each cheek. “You will come, yes?”

“Alright,” she agreed hesitantly. “As long as you’re not planning on getting us into trouble.”

“I seem to remember you being rather good at dealing with trouble! But no, trouble is not what I have in mind.”

 

The following evening was overcast but warm. In Alistair’s quarters she found a bemused king, along with Leliana and Zevran, all dressed in drab commoners’ clothing.

“Here.” Leliana thrust a pile of clothes at her, topped with a pair of serviceable leather shoes. “Put these on - we will wait outside for you.”

“Would it not be more comfortable to wait in here - “

“Outside, Zevran!”

Briony obediently shed her brocaded dress and donned the new garb. “Well?” she said, emerging into the corridor.

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Wow. You look…” It was far from the finest thing he'd ever seen her in, but she took his breath away nonetheless. The linen blouse bared her smooth shoulders, her waist accentuated by a darker-coloured bodice laced in front. The skirt ended at her calves, showing off a pair of shapely ankles.

But it was the sparkle in her eyes that caught his attention, a lightness he hadn't seen in such a long time. In asking her to be his queen he'd caged her, he realised, forced her into playing the role of the proper noble lady she'd never really been. In dressing as a stranger, she seemed to have found the freedom to be herself again.

She caught his look of consternation. “I look what?” she asked with a smile. “Common?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Anything but common.”

“You could not look common if you tried, my dear Grey Warden. But you will do for tonight.” Zevran wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. “Now! I hope you both remember how to escape a castle.”

 

The waterfront was one area of Denerim that had escaped the darkspawn attack largely unscathed. Here the Drakon River met the Amaranthine Ocean, and on the south side of the bridge the wharf was busy with taverns and ramshackle food carts, serving dishes both Ferelden and exotic. Here they perched on the railings, eating pies hot enough to burn their fingers and mouths. The sunset behind them threw a pink light on the clouds that gathered over the ocean, and as the evening chill set in Zevran produced a flask of brandy that sent tingling warmth to their fingers and toes.

“Looks like rain,” Alistair observed.

Briony didn't care much if it snowed. Freed from the constant scrutiny of court, surrounded by friends without the threat of the Blight hanging over their heads, she was more content than she could remember feeling in a long time. She  broke off scraps of flaky pastry, tossing them to the raucous gulls that crowded the sand below.

Alistair watched as the last rays of sun caught her hair. Saw her lift her face to feel the sea breeze, swinging her legs carelessly. There was a warmth in his chest that the brandy couldn't account for. She felt him staring and turned, her eyes bright and curious. “What is it? Do I have crumbs on my face?”

“Yes,” he lied. Any excuse to touch her, to cup her jaw while his thumb stroked gently at the corner of her mouth, the spot where he'd once kissed her. Her lips parted, her grey eyes soft with what might have been desire…

Suddenly overwhelmed, he broke away. “Should we go somewhere else then, before the rain hits?”

He hopped down onto the wooden boards of the wharf, missing the quick flash of disappointment on Briony’s face before he turned to help her down. He tried not to stare as she swung her legs over the railing, her skirt riding up almost to her knees before he lifted her and lowered her gently to the ground.

“I could have managed that myself, you know,” she teased, immediately regretting it when his hands left her waist.

“I know,” he stammered. “I just - “

“It's fine, Alistair,” she reassured him. “Thank you. Really.”

They became aware of eyes upon them, their friends watching them in amusement.

“So, where to next?” Zevran asked.

Leliana considered. “Somewhere our royal lovebirds won't be recognised. But not so rough we'll end up in a fight.”

“A pity,” mused the elf. “I haven't had a good fight in ages. But I know just the place.”

He led them to a tavern north of the bridge, warm light and music spilling from the open door. The crowd inside was a mix of common folk and less well-to-do merchants, sailors and off-duty guards. By some miracle they found an empty corner table, although by the time Zevran returned with four pints of ale (“The only thing this country makes worth drinking!”) four chairs had somehow become three.

“It is no problem,” he sighed. “I can stand.”

“Nonsense,” Leliana insisted. “Briony, give him your chair. You can sit with Alistair.”

“With…?”

She looked pointedly at Alistair’s lap.

“Oh. Alright then...if you don’t mind?”

“Um. Mind? No, I...er...suppose not.” He shifted awkwardly in his chair, turning a deep shade of crimson as she perched delicately on his knee.

Embarrassment aside, it felt so right to have so much of her body in contact with his. Particularly as the night wore on and she relaxed, leaning back against his chest. Outside the rain began in earnest and the door was closed against the wild weather, making the packed tavern a cozy haven against the storm. It was some time before he noticed that the hand he wasn’t using for drinking was resting lightly on her hip. Moving it now would just draw attention to the fact, he reasoned, so he left it there.

Leliana was partway through an uncanny impression of Oghren that had them all in stitches, when a heavy hand fell on Alistair’s shoulder.

“You,” a gruff voice slurred. “You look familiar.”

Alistair looked into the face of a man in middle age, his breath smelling strongly of drink. “Me? I think you must be mistaken. I have one of those faces, you know…”

“Pigshit.” The drunkard wore the uniform of the city guard. He squinted suspiciously at Alistair. “I was stationed in the market district when the Hero of Ferelden came through. You...you’re one of them Redcliffe men, ain’t you?”

“I...yes.” It was mostly the truth.

“Good men, Redcliffe.” The guard offered him a sweaty handshake. “Saved our arses, you did.” He focused on Briony. “Good man you’ve got there.”

She smiled up at him. “I know,” she replied, draping an arm around Alistair’s neck and causing him to nearly choke on his pint. “The best.”

“To Redcliffe! And Maker bless the Dalish.” This with a nod to Zevran, who raised his drink in return, before the man staggered off.

“You didn’t wish to tell him you aren’t Dalish?” Leliana asked.

He shrugged. “He did not call me a knife-ear, nor an Antivan whoreson. I will take praise where I can find it.”

 

The hour had grown late, and the silence from outside suggested a break in the storm. Reluctantly Briony and Alistair untangled themselves and the four of them began the walk home. Leliana began a song, and before long Briony joined in, her voice surprisingly husky and sweet.

“She is a woman of many talents, your queen, no?” Zevran watched the two women admiringly, their arms linked as they navigated the wet cobblestones.

His tongue loosened by ale, Alistair answered truthfully. “She’s incredible.”

“Indeed.” The elf sighed enviously. “You are a lucky man.”

“If I can hold onto her,” he muttered.

“Unless I misread the situation earlier, both of you were holding onto each other.” Zevran winked. “And now we reach the palace district,” he said more loudly. “I fear we must part company once again, my dear Wardens.”

Briony hugged her friends goodbye, letting go with reluctance. “This was the best time I’ve had in ages,” she said sincerely. “Thank you all so much.”

“What are friends for?” said Leliana. “I trust you two will see each other home safely.”

She clutched Alistair’s arm, giggling. “Don’t worry, the King has his bodyguard close by.”

“Hey, now,” he protested. “My body doesn’t need guarding.”

“Are you sure?” she teased. “I think there were some ladies back at the docks who wouldn’t have minded getting closer to your body.”

He laughed. “I’m not sure those were ladies. But just as well you were there to protect me.”

“Just as well.”

They fell silent, both realising at the same time that their friends had melted away into the night and they stood in the street alone. As if on cue it began to rain again, great fat drops that pelted their hair and clothing.

“Run!” she cried. Hand in hand they dashed in the direction of the palace, only to realise at the same time that they hadn’t given much thought to how they would sneak back in. Still being pelted by the rain, they took cover in a sheltered alcove opposite the palace gates.

“Maker, what now?” Briony leaned back against the wall, laughing too hard to catch her breath. Her hair was plastered to her scalp, her clothing saturated. As was his, Alistair realised, trying not to focus on the rise and fall of her chest or the way the wet fabric clung to the curves of her body. It wasn’t working.

“I suppose we’ll just have to approach the guards,” he said uncertainly. “And hope they recognise us and don’t insist on fetching Eamon.”

“Eamon.” She sighed. “I don’t know if I can take any more of Eamon’s disapproval. He’s worse than my old Nan. At least she would eventually stop being angry and give you cakes.”

“Well, I’m King now. I’ll order Eamon to hand out more cakes, on pain of exile.”

“It’s a start.” Briony peered around the wall. “Someone’s coming. Oh Maker, it’s Teagan! What do we do?”

“Hide!” Alistair said, although there was nowhere for them to go.

Briony bit her lip. “Come here.” She pulled him close, his body hiding her from the street. “We’re just a couple getting out of the rain. He can’t see our faces if we’re, well…”

“If we’re what?” he asked stupidly. “Oh.”

“Shh.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, drawing his face closer to hers. Off balance, his hands flew to her waist, his fingers brushing the underside of her breasts. They both froze.

He was so close, she could feel his warm breath on her face. His big hands cupping her ribcage, their hips nearly touching. _Don’t be afraid to tell him what you want,_ Leliana had said. And now, with his lips so near hers, all she wanted was to kiss him…

“Good evening, Alistair. Briony.”

They sprang apart, faces burning.

“Yes. Um. Teagan. Good evening.” Alistair cleared his throat. “We were…”

“Lost?” The Bann smiled indulgently. “It’s rather larger than Redcliffe Castle, isn’t it? Quite easy to get turned around, and find yourself…” He gestured to the street. “It’s just as well I came along when I did.”

“Yes, that is lucky.” Alistair patted Briony on the back - she seemed to have been hit by a sudden fit of coughing.

“I had better get you both back inside then, before your lady comes down with a fever.” Teagan looked between them, a faint smirk on his lips. “You both look rather flushed, now I mention it.”

“That would be best,” Alistair agreed, and Briony nodded vehemently. “Thank you, Teagan.”

“Don’t mention it. I certainly won’t.” He unfastened his hooded cloak and passed it to Briony. “I think perhaps the servant’s entrance would be quicker, don’t you? We wouldn’t want Eamon to fuss.”

If the servants had any opinion on the King and Bann Teagan sneaking in the back of the palace with a mystery cloaked figure, they gave no indication. When the mystery person turned out to be their queen-to-be, she was quietly spirited back to her quarters, a warm bath drawn and the fire banked high.

The last she saw of Alistair he was watching her go, a dazed half-smile on his handsome face. She remembered that smile as she drifted off to sleep, dry and warm in her bed.


	8. Impropriety

The countdown to the wedding day began in earnest. More and more, the business of state was interrupted by concerns about the housing of guests, reminders about royal protocol and what seemed like endless tailoring adjustments. In the name of propriety, guards were placed at the doors of both the young couple’s quarters. They could come and go freely, of course, but weren't to spend any time alone until the wedding night.

It was ridiculous, Alistair thought. Eamon had explained that these traditions were in place to safeguard against any rumours that might arise if a royal heir was to arrive too soon after the wedding, but the likelihood of them conceiving at all was so slim as to be nearly impossible. The Arl hadn't appreciated being reminded of that fact. And he had already convinced the Arl and Grand Cleric that he'd taken her virginity months ago, so there should be no concern about preserving her maidenhead.

Not that given the chance they would do much but talk, anyway. He missed their talks, their days so taken up with politics and wedding business that they barely saw each other save across the council table. At dinner she placed her hand upon his knee, mercifully unaware of the strain this caused beneath the royal tunic.

Alistair didn't just want to talk. He wanted to part those full lips with his tongue, wanted to feel those stiff little nipples that had been so clearly visible through her wet clothing. He wanted to know the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the sounds she made when he touched her, the shape of her mouth when she came.

With a groan, he rolled over in his too-large bed. Soon he would share it with her, every night. Would she submit to his attentions from a sense of duty? If she were to lie there still and uncomfortable, he knew he would be too shy to try and coax more from her. It would become a chore for both of them, an expected unpleasantness that would taint their friendship.

But if she wanted him…

His only sexual experience had been unconventional, to say the least. At first all his concentration had gone into the effort not to flee from Morrigan’s yellow stare, seeking out Briony and telling her he'd made a terrible mistake. Then it was dark, and all he could recall was the brush of long hair against his chest, the dip of the mattress as she straddled his hips. 

And then a feeling sweeter than he'd ever experienced, warm and wet and tight around him. Blushing, he freed himself from his breeches. But it wasn't Morrigan he pictured, and it wasn't dark. Instead he imagined the warm glow of firelight on sleek muscles, dark lashes fluttering over storm-grey eyes. Her lips parting as he worked his hand between her thighs. Honey-blonde hair spread out on the pillow and the elegant curve of her neck as she threw her head back, gasping his name... 

Shame washed over him in the aftermath, that he would use thoughts of her for his own pleasure. She was his friend, and would be his wife and queen - not some dirty etching passed around the Templar dormitory. And he wasn't a lust-addled teen, but the King of Ferelden! He would not become his father, ruining lives because he couldn't keep his wants in check.

But when he closed his eyes all he could see was her, rain-soaked strands of hair clinging to her face as her wide eyes gazed up at his, seeming to beg _kiss me._

 

“It is not _proper,”_ he heard Eamon say as he entered the courtyard.

“Eamon, you yourself named me a Champion of Redcliffe. Everybody here knows I'm a Grey Warden. I've been trained in combat almost since I could walk!” Briony’s frustration was clear in the uncharacteristic sharpness of her tone. “Why is it suddenly improper for me to spar with the men-at-arms? Many of whom are women, I might add!”

“Women they may be, but they are not about to marry the King! And that armour may be suitable for a Warden in the Wilds, but it's certainly not appropriate for the prospective Queen of Ferelden to be walking about with her - her _thighs_ showing.”

“I don't know, I quite like her thighs.” Alistair insinuated himself between the red-faced Arl and his increasingly furious bride-to-be. “Shouldn't the King have some say in this, Eamon?”

The older man crossed his arms. “I am not convinced we should trust your judgement when it comes to the young lady, Alistair.”

“May I remind you,” he answered coolly, “that the young lady is a veteran of several battles, the Hero of Ferelden, the daughter of a Teyrn and, oh yes, a champion of Redcliffe. If it's her station you're worried about, I train alongside the men - and women - quite regularly.”

“Do not be flippant, Alistair. It is not the same - “

“I may have a solution,” Briony interrupted sweetly. “I can spar with Alistair. If you don't mind, Your Highness?”

“I don't mind at all.” Maker, had he really survived an entire year following her around in that armour? No wonder Wynne had teased him so mercilessly about her swaying hips.

Eamon’s lips pursed. “The ceremony is little more than a week away. We cannot risk injury - “

“I'll be gentle with him,” Briony promised. Alistair returned her smirk, earning himself a glare from Eamon.

“Do what you want,” he said petulantly. “You will anyway.” He stalked off, shaking his head.

“You would never guess that was Queen Rowan's brother.” Briony grinned at Alistair and his heart skipped. “Do you need to change?”

“That depends,” he answered. “Would it be very _improper_ to spar in my undershirt and trousers? That's assuming, of course, that you're not going to beat me up too badly.”

“I promised to be gentle, and gentle I shall be,” she said solemnly. “As for proper, well…once the Queen’s _thighs_ are on display, we can forget all about propriety.”

He fetched a blunted sparring sword, and soon a small crowd had gathered around the edges of the courtyard to watch them practice. Alistair was stronger beyond question, but Briony evaded him easily, dancing around his sword swings with fluid grace.

“You're going easy on me!” she called, laughing.

“Oh, and you're not?” He parried a dagger strike with his sword and she pirouetted away from his shield bash.

“I don't want to embarrass you in front of your subjects!” she retorted. “Besides, even a blunted jab to the kidney is going to hurt without armour!”

The banter distracted her enough that he managed a lucky blow, striking across her buttocks with the flat of his sword.

“You cheeky bastard,” she swore.

“Guilty as charged.”

“I'm going to wipe that grin off your face.”

“Promise?”

In the next breath he over-extended himself, leaving his right side open long enough for her to land a jab to the ribs that sent him off balance. Before he could recover she hooked a foot behind his ankle, sending him sprawling onto his back.

“Do you yield?” Briony straddled his chest, a blunted dagger resting at his throat and a triumphant grin on her prettily flushed face.

“I don't know,” he complained. “I’m not sure that was a fair fight. You distracted me with your…womanly thighs.”

“With my _what?”_ Maker, but she was breathtaking, her eyes flashing with mock outrage. “Alistair Thierin, you lecherous - “

His hand cupped her neck, his lips cutting off whatever she had been about to say. Caught by surprise she returned the kiss, her lips parting eagerly, full and soft beneath his.

They broke apart to a small spattering of applause, both scrambling quickly to their feet.

Alistair grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Well,” he said in an undertone. “So much for propriety.” He raised his eyes to hers, afraid of what he might find there. Would she be angry? Ashamed? Worse, pitying?

Briony had never looked more beautiful to him than in that moment, her hair dishevelled and her eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth, a smudge of dirt across her cheekbone.

“Oh, Maker,” she giggled. “Eamon is going to have kittens!”


	9. Hidden Ways

Briony found she couldn't keep from smiling. The dirt and sweat of the sparring match dissipated into the bath water but the smile lingered, sometimes breaking into quiet, disbelieving laughter. She could still feel the movement of his lips on hers, his warm hand on the back of her neck.

She took more time than usual soaping her skin, gentle strokes of the cloth over her shoulders, arms, breasts. And her thighs…they were rather nice thighs, she supposed. The sort of thighs a man might like to touch, long, sword-calloused fingers resting on her knee and travelling slowly up, up…

Heat flooded her body. She scrambled out of the warm water and covered her nakedness with a towel. If she couldn't see her own body, she could keep from thinking about all the things she wanted him to do to it, things that had never occurred to her before today.

 _He's marrying you by because of your breeding, you little fool,_ she thought bitterly. _If he wanted a whore he could find one, but a king doesn't wish his wife to act the harlot in bed._

But he kissed her. And not a chaste, tentative kiss like she might have expected. Gentle but firm, decisive, and enough to give her the feeling he was holding back so much more.

Dressed in just her smallclothes she stood a little back from the open window, hoping that the evening breeze would cool some of the heat from her face. When that failed she wrapped a soft robe around herself and paced the room, seeking a distraction. Her quarters were actually a guest suite - probably where Teyrn Loghain had stayed when visiting his daughter, she thought with a shudder.

The space not dominated by the four-poster bed was somewhat stark - a small writing desk near the window, its drawers empty of all but ink and blank vellum. A dressing table, a wardrobe and a tall bookcase, sadly deficient in books. Much of the wall was taken up with a tapestry depicting Andraste’s sacrifice, flames of faded red and gold surrounding the oddly serene prophet.

She would have screamed, Briony thought. It wouldn't have made for pretty tapestries or stained-glass windows, but a person being burnt alive would scream. It wasn't that blank expression that moved Hessarian to drive the blade of mercy through her heart.

She reached out to touch Andraste’s face, the pale cascade of her hair. Strange…the wall beneath felt wrong somehow. All the internal walls of the palace were built of the same smooth stone, but the section here was uneven, as if the tapestry had been hung there to cover some crack or flaw in the masonry.

Curious, Briony pushed the heavy fabric aside to examine the wall. Sure enough a long crack ran diagonal across the stone. When she ran her fingers along the fissure there was one section, barely the length of her palm, wide enough for her fingers to fit into. And there, just within reach of her fingertips, something flat and metallic. Like a catch, or a lever…she pressed on it and heard a whirring, grinding sound within the wall.

The room around her looked the same. Disappointed, she dropped the tapestry back into place. What now? What was she even looking for? A hidden alcove, perhaps. Or a passage. If it was opened by the lever then it must be hidden by something. Not the bed, not the thick rug that covered only flagstones. But perhaps…

A faint draught could be felt where the bookcase met the wall. Muscles protesting, she leaned on the heavy case and pushed with all her strength. The first reluctant movement was the hardest, then it slid across with comparative ease.

The draught became a cool breeze, emerging from an aperture hidden in the wall. Finally a gap was exposed large enough for a human body to slip through.

A narrow passage had been revealed, stretching away into darkness. There was a clean, earthy smell of stone and a freshness to the air that suggested at some point it might emerge into the open. Briony grimaced at the sight of cobwebs stretched across the passage, consoling herself that the gap was too narrow to accommodate any giant spiders. 

Her robe may not be the most practical garb for exploring dark tunnels, but she had no desire to get back into her sweaty leathers so soon after bathing, and it was better than risking any of the fine dresses hanging in her wardrobe. She'd gone to the effort of uncovering the entrance and now her curiosity was well and truly piqued.

Nothing for it, then. Tying the gown more firmly at her waist, Briony ventured into the darkness.

It was difficult to tell how long the passage had lain undisturbed - the ubiquitous cobwebs could have been the work of months or centuries. What was clear was that it was as old as the castle itself, built into the original structure. An escape route in times of war, perhaps. A secret route for spying, or lovers’ trysts. Perhaps any or all of the above. The stone beneath her feet was smooth and even. Before long a dull light appeared, coming from a chink in the wall a little further on.

Briony tried to reconcile her progress with what she knew of the layout of the castle. She was on the upper floor, taken up by the royal and guest quarters and the studies of the king and seneschal. The peep-hole was just beyond her eye level, but the faint sound of splashing water came through the wall.

On tiptoes, using her fingers for leverage, she stretched towards the light.

A click as her fingers triggered some hidden mechanism, and before she could regain her balance a panel in the wall had swung open, depositing her squarely in the royal bathing alcove.

She registered the sight of the unclothed king, standing with his back to her as he reached for a towel. Water glistening on his broad back and shoulders, muscular thighs supporting buttocks so finely sculpted they would not look out of place on a Tevinter statue.

At the sound of her entrance he turned, and both of them stood for the longest time, frozen in wide-eyed shock. His chest was beautiful too, his stomach taut, a trail of damp golden hair drawing her eyes down to…

Briony tore her gaze away, blushing furiously. The spell broken, Alistair fumbled for his towel.

“What - “ he sputtered. “Where did…how?” The towel was clenched in his hands, held before him like a shield.

Burning alive seemed suddenly preferable to the situation she found herself in. Though Maker knew, with the heat flooding her face she'd be hard pressed to tell the difference. She gestured helplessly at the open panel, Alistair glancing open-mouthed between her and the sudden hole in his wall.

“I…” _Fuck. Andraste’s bloody tits._ She composed herself, smiling as though she had just run into him unexpectedly in the gardens rather than bursting in on him naked in his bathchamber. “Hello, Alistair.”


	10. Lips

_Hello?_

Alistair stood in a daze, trying to comprehend how Briony had come to be standing in his chambers in a woollen robe, having apparently fallen through the wall.

“Wait there for a moment,” he finally said. “I need to…”

Trousers. He needed trousers. And to dress without exposing himself more than he already had.

“I can turn around,” she offered shyly.

“Please.” Alistair retrieved his pants from the back of a chair. “So…what just happened, exactly?”

Facing the wall, Briony fidgeted awkwardly. “There was a passage. From my room. I…I wasn't trying to spy on you bathing, I swear. There was light, and I tried to see in, and - I suppose I must have pressed something. By accident!” She half turned before remembering the reason she was looking away. “I didn't even know it was your quarters.”

His pants finally buttoned, Alistair walked over to inspect the wall. It was cleverly done, the hinged panel covered in a layer of stone that blended seamlessly with the rest of the wall.

“Don't shut it!” Briony squeaked, as the panel almost slid back into place. He swung it back open, looking at her questioningly. “I might not be able to open it again,” she explained. “And then the only way out is through the door and I'd have to explain how I got in, and what I'm doing here.”

A pink glow rose in her cheeks as his eyes lingered on her face. “So…what are you doing here?” he asked quietly. Briony’s hands twisted nervously in her robe, her grey eyes widening as he stepped closer. “You have cobwebs in your hair, you know.” With a boldness he didn't know he possessed, he reached out and plucked the sticky strands from above her temple. Then lingered, his fingers drifting through the damp tresses.

Not long from now she would be his wife. So why did every movement closer feel like crossing a line?

_Because deep down you're afraid she's unwilling, and too bound by duty to say so._

If that was the truth of it, such feelings vanished when she tilted her face up to his, rose-pink lips parted slightly. Replaced by stronger, infinitely more pleasant feelings when she pressed her mouth to his.

 _Briony._ He wanted to moan her name, to cry it from the depths of his soul. But to do so he would have to break free from the intoxicating movement of her lips. His hands still moved in her hair, her mouth parting further when his thumb grazed the soft skin below her ear.

Emboldened, Alistair teased the tip of his tongue between her open lips. She made a soft sound of surprise. Then to his delight her own tongue joined his, drawing him deeper inside her mouth. Her cool hands rested on the planes of his chest, still warm from bathing.

For long moments they stood like that, exploring this new sensation of intimacy. For once Alistair took the lead. He suckled on her tongue, bit gently at her lower lip. And to everything she responded eagerly, even whimpering slightly when he gathered her hair in his fingers and tilted her head back to deepen the kiss.

At last they reluctantly parted, giddy with happiness. Briony’s lips were flushed and swollen from kissing, her eyes bright.

“Did Eamon give you a hard time?” she asked.

Alistair laughed. “Please tell me you weren't thinking about Eamon that whole time!”

“Just now, I promise.” She tugged up the shoulder of her robe, suddenly shy again. “He seemed…displeased…when I left you earlier.”

Displeased was a good word for it. When he'd suggested dismissing the afternoon’s council meeting, in a tone that said it wasn't a suggestion at all. When he'd _suggested_ that Alistair stay, for a talk in private.

“He gave me a long lecture on conduct becoming a monarch.” And suggested he make an effort to keep his bride under control, although Alistair spared her that detail. “Then told me to get cleaned up, and that I should spend the time before dinner in contemplation in the Chantry.”

“So you'll be off to the Chantry now, I presume?” she asked, appearing not at all chastened.

“Maybe in a while. I just remembered a more pressing engagement. Unless…” He quirked an eyebrow. “Did you have more exploring to do before dinner? You may be able to catch Eamon on the privy, if you hurry.”

“Perhaps another day.”

“In that case, let me give you the grand tour.” Alistair swept his arm towards the bedchamber. “I take it you've seen enough in here for one day.”

“More than enough,” she teased.

“Oh Maker, I did it again, didn't I? Foot, meet mouth.” He sighed dramatically. “Anyway, this is the royal bedchamber. And the royal bed. It's actually quite comfortable, particularly if you're used to lumpy bedrolls. I hear the new queen is a rough sort, so she should cope fine with it.”

“I don't know…” Briony sat on the edge of the mattress, bouncing experimentally. “I hear the king snores like a bronto.”

“Treason! The king will have you tried for sedition if he hears you've been speaking like that.”

“You wouldn't tell, would you?” She bit her lip, eyes widening in mock concern.

Heart suddenly pounding, he lowered himself onto the bed next to her. “I don't know…I am very talkative. You might have to think of some way to stop my mouth.”

“I know just the thing.” The space between them vanished, her fingers curling around the back of his neck as her lips sought his once more. Oh, she was so perfect his head spun with the closeness of her.

“Was that your first kiss, in the garden?” she broke away to ask.

“Well…yes,” he confessed.

“But - are you sure? You're so…” Briony glanced away. “You're so _good_ at it.”

Alistair chuckled, more pleased than he cared to admit. “I may not have done it before, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about how I'd _like_ to do it.” Tentatively he reached to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Especially since I met you.”

“Alistair.” Her grey eyes softened. “I…” She paused, then a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Do you really like my thighs?”

“Yes! I could write poems about them. At least, if I could write poems, then…” He fell silent as her fingers curled around his. Shifting slightly to part her robe, she slid his hand onto her bare leg.

_Oh, Maker._

They really were the most amazing thighs. Athletic, slender but strong. And her skin, so soft and warm, his hands felt rough and brutish in comparison. “Briony, are you - “

“Shh.” She kissed him again and his words melted away. There was only sensation, the slide of her tongue against his, the brush of her eyelashes on his cheek. Her skin smelled of soap and roses, her hair of lemons. When he cupped her jaw he could feel the movement of her throat when she swallowed.

“Bri…” he groaned. Restlessly he stroked her thigh, tracing slow circles on her skin. She moaned and the sound shot straight to his groin, making his fingers tense. Higher, his hand crept, higher, until he brushed the edge of lacy fabric. Mortified by his forwardness, he pulled back.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…I just…when I'm around you, I feel like my head’s going to explode.” Not the only part of his body that felt like it would explode, if he was being perfectly honest.

Briony cupped his cheek, rubbing a thumb against the golden stubble. “I think I know how that feels.”

The light through the arched windows was beginning to fade. “We should get ready for dinner,” he said reluctantly. “Can you find the way back?”

She nodded. “It's not far.” Smoothing her robe she stood, turning when Alistair touched her wrist.

“So - you haven't had second thoughts? Because it's not too late, if you don't…if this isn't what you want.”

“I have,” she admitted, and his heart plummeted. “And third thoughts, and fourth. But I want _you,_ Alistair. All of you.”

He rose to capture her mouth in a last hungry kiss, sliding away to whisper hoarsely in her ear. “Will you come again tonight? Just to talk, if you want to.” He swallowed thickly. “I'd really like to see you.”

“I'll come.” Her fingers squeezed his. “Just try and stop me.”

 


	11. Experimentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little NSFW, finally!

Dinner was sweet agony. She sat beside him as always, painfully aware of every movement, every shy look in her direction. News of the kiss had obviously spread because along with Arl Eamon’s disapproving presence they were treated to the whispers and giggles of some of the flightier dinner guests. Even the servants seemed to glance sideways as they passed as if hoping to catch some sliver of gossip to carry back to the kitchens.

Well if it was gossip they wanted, they'd get none from her. She'd moved the bookcase back against the wall in case someone should come in to tidy the room. When not occupied with food or drink, her hands were folded demurely in her lap, not so much as a brush of her fingers against Alistair's arm.

She caught Eamon staring and returned an innocent smile. The Arl looked away quickly, his lips thinning.

“Ignore him,” Teagan said quietly. In contrast to his brother, the Bann of Rainesfere was in a fine mood. “Eamon married an Orlesian woman after Orlais occupied our country for a century - I hardly think the two of you have created a scandal to rival that.”

“He disapproves of me.”

“You're the sister of the only remaining Teyrn in Ferelden.” Teagan looked at her, surprised. “What more could he possibly ask for in a queen?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Briony’s mouth twisted in the approximation of a smile. “The ability to bear children, perhaps?”

He shrugged. “He was eager enough to marry Alistair off to Anora.”

“Anora.” She swirled the wine in her goblet. “Did anybody consider perhaps Cailan was the reason why they never produced an heir?”

“Cailan didn't, that's for certain!” Teagan’s laughter died as he saw the real worry on her face. “Look, if Eamon disapproves of you it's only because he's annoyed that you're not someone more…malleable.”

She snorted in somewhat unladylike fashion. “And Anora is malleable?”

“Her father was executed as a traitor, her claim to the throne was flimsy - he would have hoped that in allowing her to remain as Queen, she might have been grateful enough to allow him more influence over affairs of state.” He drained his goblet. “For what it's worth, I think she would have disappointed him.”

“Am I so threatening, then?” she asked quietly.

“Not you, exactly.” Teagan nodded to the man seated on her other side, apparently oblivious to their discussion as he enthusiastically dissected a slice of pie. “He's afraid of losing control over the King.”

“But I don't want to control Alistair.” Briony frowned, exasperated. “All I want is for him to be confident in making his own decisions.”

“I know,” said Teagan. “And that's exactly what Eamon fears.” He leaned back in his chair. “I make him sound terribly sinister, don't I? I don't mean to. My brother is just used to having things a certain way. He's had to make many adjustments lately, and the idea of Maric’s bastard child outranking him is one more thing he'll have to come to terms with."

Briony thought of his brush with death, waking to find his only son had been packed off to the Circle, half the village having been destroyed by the undead. 

"You're both still very young, but you have Ferelden’s best interests at heart - once he stops thinking of Alistair as a wayward, mud-covered child, he'll come to recognise that.”

 

The conversation with Teagan replayed in her mind as she dressed for bed. Or, more accurately, dressed as if for bed. Could it be possible, she wondered as she brushed her hair to a silken glow, that the succession wasn't the reason for Eamon’s coolness towards her? Perhaps he thought Alistair’s warning about Grey Warden infertility was overstated? Or maybe he hoped that like his father, Alistair might father a child outside of the marriage bed.

Little did he know that somewhere in the world, a royal bastard could be a few short months away from birth. She tried, and failed, to picture Morrigan as mother to a baby. Then resolved to put such thoughts out of her head, knowing where they might lead.

It was late enough now, she judged. She lit a lamp and threw a long cloak on over her nightdress. Something must have been loosened by her first effort, for the door opened more easily this time, the shadowed passage beckoning her.

More sure of her way now and with the lantern to guide her, she made her way quickly to Alistair’s chambers. The opening mechanism took her some time to find, and she marvelled at the bad - or good? - fortune that had allowed her to stumble upon it by accident. Then something gave beneath her fingers, and she stepped into the darkened bathchamber.

“You came.”

In the next room Alistair stood by the bed. There were a thousand things she'd wanted to say to him. But now he was right here, and there was such relief in his voice, such raw hunger in his kiss that words were quite forgotten. They kissed and kissed, small pecks and messy collisions of lips and tongue and long, lingering embraces.

Briony’s cloak fell to the floor and she drew him down onto the soft bed, their bodies close enough that each could feel the heat radiating from the other.

“Can I kiss your neck?” he whispered and she nodded, her grey eyes wide and curious. Then his lips found her pulse and the little sound she made in the back of her throat nearly snapped the thread of his self-control. He wanted to pull down the neck of her nightdress and kiss her breasts all over, bare her legs and part her thighs and - 

"Stop," she breathed suddenly, as if reading his mind, gently pushing him away. 

“I'm sorry,” he said automatically. “Did I do something wrong? I didn't hurt you, did I?”

The earnest look in his brown eyes broke her heart. “You didn't, I promise.” She sat up and drew her knees to her chest. “I'm afraid, that's all.”

“Of me?”

Briony noticed how he shifted to the other side of the bed, deliberately giving her space. She shook her head vehemently. “Not you. I just…I have these feelings, that I've never really felt before now. And they're so strong - I'm afraid of losing control, and I don't know what will happen if I do.” The fall of her hair hid her face from him. “I'm scared, because I want to do things I don't even have words for, and I don't want you to think less of me, because…”

“Briony.” Kneeling, he shuffled closer to her. “If you want me - if you want to be with me, that's more than I ever could have hoped for. I may be lacking in imagination, but I can't think of anything you could do that would digust me, or repel me, or whatever it is you fear.” Gently, he pushed the hair back from her face. “If it helps, I quite like the idea of you…doing things.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I say we play it by ear. But if you don't object, for now I'd very much like to go back to kissing you.”

“Mmm. I think I'd like that too.” Her arms encircled his neck, and then her lips were once more on his. Some of his shyness gone, Alistair pulled her close until her body was flush with his, his hands spanning the small of her back and drifting down to the round swell of her buttocks. His lips drifted from her mouth to her jawline, planting warm, wet kisses down the column of her neck and feeling her shiver with each new touch.

When she finally broke away, it was to look down between them where the obvious proof of Alistair’s arousal pressed into her thigh.

“I'm sorry,” he said, shamefaced. “I really have no control over when it does that.”

“Don't be sorry.” Briony sat back on her ankles, still staring at his lap. Tentatively she raised a hand, bringing it to rest on his thigh. “Would you mind - “ Shy again, her eyes flickered to his then away. “Could I…see it?”

“Really? I mean yes. If that's what you want.” Alistair’s heart was pounding so loudly, he half expected her to remark on it.

When neither of them moved, Briony finally took the drawstring of his linen pants between her fingers. He could feel the subtle trembling of her hands as she loosened the waistband and drew it down.

So that was what they called a manhood. It was bigger than she expected, flushed and almost angry-looking. But glancing at Alistair's face she revised that assessment. No, not angry - hungry, begging to be sated. 

He couldn't look away from her face, so solemn, the corner of her mouth twisted in concentration. When he felt the first brush of her fingertips against his skin he jerked in shock, and her eyes shot to his face. “Sorry!”

“No! Don't be. I was surprised, that's all.” _Don't scare her off now, you royal idiot._ He smiled, and was relieved to see her trepidation vanish. “Please - it's fine.”

“Can I try something?” she asked, gathering her hair behind her neck.

“Sure.” His eyes widened as she bent to his lap. “Oh, Maker…Bri…what are…?”

“I'm sorry,” she said again, sitting up. “It's something I heard some women do. But if you don't want me to - “

“I do,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

He saw her eyes soften in a smile before she leaned down once more, then her lips closed around him and he could no longer keep his eyes open. Each sweep of her tongue, each slide of her fingers added flames to the fire burning inside him. 

“Don't stop,” he gasped, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Oh, Maker, what are you doing to me?”

She had very little idea what she was doing, truth be told, but the clumsy movements of her mouth and hands seemed to be having the desired effect. Before long she felt him twitch, his thighs tightening.

“Briony, I can't…I'm going to…” Alistair threw his head back and _groaned,_ white stars exploding behind his eyes. _I love you_ was on his lips - he couldn't tell if he said it or not but he felt it deep within him, a swelling of his heart so sharp and sudden he thought it might burst.

Briony looked up at him as she swallowed, watched the rise and fall of his bare chest, his eyes still shut tight, fingers drifting softly through her hair.

 _I did that,_ she thought with pride. “Are you alright?”

His bleary eyes opened, taking a moment to focus on her. “I'm not sure _alright_ describes it, to be honest.” Dazedly he stroked her cheek. Traced the freckles on the bridge of her nose, ran his thumb over her rosy lips, those sweet lips that had brought him undone. “You're incredible.”

Unbelievably, that was what made her blush. “I should go,” she murmured. Slipping free of his fingers, she rose and began to gather her cloak from the floor.

“Briony, wait.” Alistair hurriedly tucked himself back into his pants and scooted to the edge of the bed. “Just a moment.” He reached out and drew her close, his hands at her waist and his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on her hips.

“Nobody's ever made me feel like that before,” he said sincerely. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“You don't need to thank me, Alistair.”

“But I do.” He rested his cheek against her hip, brown eyes looking up at her in adoration. “I was wondering if I could do the same, for you. Not now, if you have to go. But another time. Tomorrow?”

“The same?” Her head swam with the possibilities. “I don't know how that would work,” she confessed. “But I'm willing, if you are?”

“Oh, I'm willing.” His eyes fairly sparkled. “More than willing.” He placed a kiss on her belly, a promise of things to come. “Tomorrow then, my queen.”


	12. Like a Flower

The next day was to be three days before the wedding, and tradition dictated that the bride was to be kept out of the king’s sight until the ceremony. The two spent an appropriate amount of time making their farewells after dinner, and if Briony’s eyes twinkled with more than their usual merriment, onlookers could put it down to the eagerness of a girl soon to be wed to her handsome young king.

The royal couple didn't care much for tradition.

She waited on her bed, watching the first candle of the evening burn down. Tortured by the thought of his lips on her skin, his hands so strong and tender around her waist. At last, _at last,_ the flame flickered, and before it could gutter out she held it to the wick of her small lantern, lighting the flame that would lead her to him.

 

“Will we be hit by lightning, do you think?” Alistair asked once he'd kissed her thoroughly, and again for good measure.

“We'll see.” Briony tweaked his ear playfully. “It's early yet, could still happen.”

“I'm not sure the Chantry sisters were ever very specific about what we had to do to earn a lightning strike.” Alistair sat in a plush chair by the fire and drew Briony into his lap. “Didn't want to give us ideas, I imagine.”

“I'm sure between the two of us we can come up with something to incur the Maker's wrath.”

“Do you have any thoughts?”

Alistair's hand rested on her thigh, and she twined her smaller fingers through his.

“Plenty.” She eased up the hem of her nightdress until a shapely knee was exposed, her skin glowing bronze in the firelight. “This seems a good place to start.”

“Yes…” His fingers stroked a path from her knee up her thigh and down again. “I can see how He might disapprove of this.”

“Alistair...” Her voice was little more than a whisper, her pupils already blown wide with desire.

“What do you need?” he asked hoarsely.

“Kiss me,” she commanded, and he was all too happy to oblige. He coaxed her mouth open with his tongue, his other hand gathering the hair at the nape of her neck as his thumb brushing tantalisingly against her inner thigh.

 _He wants you._ No need to be demure, no need to keep her hands from roaming over his bare shoulders or stop the press of her barely-clothed breasts against him. Or to stifle her gasp of shocked delight when his hand brushed the seam of her smallclothes.

Alistair wanted, he _needed_ to hear that sound again. The journey of his hand down her leg seemed too long, the slow sweep up, giving her a chance to press her thighs together if she wished. But no, she pressed back against his exploring fingers, whimpering against his lips.

“Bri.” He broke free of her kiss, breathing heavily. “I need to see you. Please, I need to taste you.”

How mere words could have an effect on her as strong as his touch, she had no idea. All she knew was the urge to take his fingers and press them back between her legs, to rut against him until this feeling resolved itself somehow. Oh Maker, she should have spoken more to Leliana before she found herself in this situation, not relied on half-remembered snatches of conversation amongst the men-at-arms back in Highever, inevitably falling silent when the Teyrn’s daughter approached.

“Tell me what to do,” she begged.

“Stand up. Here, face me.” Alistair tugged her smallclothes down with little trouble, letting her kick them aside. Then he seemed to undergo some internal struggle, his forehead resting against her hip and his breathing shaky.

“Can I help?” Briony ran her hands through his sandy hair and over his neck and shoulders. “It's alright. Alistair, you can touch me. Please, I want you to.”

“It's not too fast?” He looked up at her, something almost like fear in his brown eyes. “I don't want to do anything you're not comfortable with.”

“I'm not comfortable with you stopping,” she said, only half joking.

Trembling, he drew up the front of her nightdress inch by inch. When she was bared to him he paused, the lacy fabric bunched in his hands as he gazed at the apex of her thighs in the firelight.

“It's pretty,” he declared finally.

“Pretty? Really?”

“Yes. Like a flower.” His thumbs spread her apart. “With petals. And a bud.” Without warning he pressed a kiss between her legs and a violent shudder ran through her body. “How does that feel?”

There were no words for how it felt, none she could recall at this moment. “More,” she whispered. “Please.”

It wasn't unlike kissing, he thought. But so much better, intoxicated as he was by the sounds she made, the taste of her and the trembling of her legs. He couldn't stop touching her skin, his hands roaming over her back and thighs, her belly, pressing gently against her soft mound.

“Alistair,” she pleaded, pushing at his shoulders even as her hips bucked against him.

“Should I stop?”

“Nooo,” she whimpered, and he felt a flush of pride at the genuine dismay in her voice. “I don't know if I can stand up much longer, if you - ohhhhhh - keep doing that.”

“Here.” He drew her down onto the plush rug before the fireplace, kneeling between her open legs. “Are you comfortable?”

She nodded silently. Alistair pushed her knees further apart and resumed the work of his mouth. Tiny flicks until she was panting and gasping, languorous sweeps of his tongue that made her writhe. On a whim he licked at her pink bud, making her moan and whimper.

“There,” she sighed. “Oh Maker, yes, right there…”

He concentrated his efforts there, stroking it lightly until her hips bucked and her nails dug into his shoulders.

He could feel the orgasm rippling through her body, her skin jumping and twitching beneath his touch, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.

“Oh.” Briony rubbed her eyes, as if to wake herself from a dream. “Why did only I get hit by lightning? That hardly seems fair.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No.” She stroked his cheek, exhausted beyond reason. “Is that how I made you feel, last night?”

He kissed her knee. “That's how you make me feel all the time.”

“Liar.” She smiled. “You wouldn't be able to walk, if that were true.”

“It would be a small price to pay.” Alistair lay down next to her, drawing her to his chest. “Have I told you I love you yet?”

She went very still, and he worried that he'd put his foot in it again.

“I love you too.” She shifted to rest her chin on his chest, her grey eyes solemn. “In fact, I think we should get married.”

“Married? That seems awfully serious.”

“You're right.” Briony tucked her head back into his shoulder. “Stupid idea.” She laughed. "It's funny, you know - if my parents were alive, they'd be parading me under your nose right now. Mother would have me packed off to court faster than I could change out of my leathers."

"They wouldn't mind you marrying a bastard, then?" 

"A bastard king? I think not."

"And what would you have had to say about that?" 

"Oh, I don't know...you are a Grey Warden, that would have gotten my attention. And then when I found out you were handsome, and charming, and what marvellous things you can do with your tongue..."

"You're not so bad yourself." The neck of her nightdress had slipped down, and he kissed her bare shoulder. "I've never heard you talk about your parents. What were they like?" 

"What do you know about them?" 

"Less than I should, I'm sure. A verse or two of _The Soldier and the Seawolf._  I don't know if it's terribly accurate, though."

"Oh, fairly accurate, if old Nan was to be believed. So you know Mother was a fearsome raider, captain of the _Mistral,_ and Father fought alongside her in the rebellion. It's true they got off to a terrible start, but they were near inseparable by the time they married. Until the end." She sniffed quietly. "They were the best people. The best parents."

"I'm sorry, Bri." 

"Howe said he made her kiss his boots," she said with a flash of anger. "My mother was the Seawolf - she took down her first Orlesian warship at fifteen! She would never have given that snivelling traitor the satisfaction. She'd have died first."

"He was a coward and a liar," said Alistair. "He was trying to provoke you into making a mistake."

"My mistake was not cutting his treacherous throat when he stood in my father's hall."

"You weren't to know. Who could see that coming? He died a traitor's death in the end." He stroked her hair. "Your parents would have been proud to see you that day."

"I miss them," she mumbled. "All of them."

He tilted her chin towards him, saw the tears gathered in her wide eyes. "I wish I could take your pain away."

"You can." Briony reached down, stroking him insistently through the soft linen. "Not forever, but for now."

They rolled on the floor in a tangle of limbs and lips,and she rubbed him to a groaning climax. He tasted her again, teasing her with his tongue until she couldn't even gasp his name any longer.

Finally they lay in contented silence, until the fire was little more than coals. 

“Can't fall asleep,” Briony murmured. “The servants will catch us.”

“I don't want you to go.”

“Wait a few days,” she said. “You won't be able to get rid of me.”

“Oh, you want to stay here? That's awkward. We had a nice place picked out just outside the city. I was going to visit you on Feastdays.”

“Hmm.” She yawned. “That could work. Alistair… “

“Fine - just the main Feastdays.”

“I really have to go.”

“Just Satinalia.”

“You're a fool.”


	13. An Education

“Teagan, may I speak with you?”

The Bann looked up in surprise. “Of course, Alistair. What would you like to speak about?”

“Um…not here.” Maker, why had he thought this was a good idea? _For Briony,_ he reminded himself. He glanced nervously around the council chamber. “Would you follow me upstairs?”

Briony’s door was open, a small army of servants, seamstresses and coming and going. He didn't dare to so much as glance in their direction - it wouldn't do for rumours of bad luck to overshadow the wedding. Besides, he'd be seeing her tonight. The thought was enough to make him giddy.

“Please, come in.” The doors to his bedchamber lay open. Alistair’s eyes fell to the floor by the fireplace and his smile vanished at the sight of Briony’s smallclothes, the creamy white lace stark against the dark rug.

“Um, please, sit…no, over here.” He gestured to a chair in the corner of the sitting room. “I have to…I'll be right back.”

Quickly he dashed into the next room and retrieved the offending garment, stuffing it under his pillow.

“Now,” he said, returning to Teagan. “What were we talking about?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Ah yes.” He sat heavily. “I'm not sure how to…it's a bit of a personal question, actually.”

“I'm listening,” Teagan said patiently.

“Well I was wondering if - ahem - if you had much experience with women. With, er…virgins, in particular.”

“Oh.” Clearly taken aback, Teagan scratched his chin. “I see…yes, that is a personal question. But Alistair, didn't you tell Eamon that you and Lady Cousland had been, um, intimate, in the past?”

“He told you that?” Alistair was indignant. “That old - “

“I take it that's not the case, then.”

“No,” he admitted after a pause. “I couldn't let them do that to her.”

“I understand.”

“So you won't mention it to Eamon?”

Teagan sighed. “I see no reason to. And you're certain she's…?”

“I am,” he said firmly.

“Right.” The older man drummed his fingers on the table. “Let me ask you a question, then - have you been with a woman?”

“As in…lain? Only once.” He blushed. “And it wasn't…she did all the work, to be honest. I didn't do much except show up.”

“We've all been there.” Teagan smirked. “But you know the basics?”

“Of, er, sex? Yes.” Alistair shifted uncomfortably. “I just heard it could be unpleasant for a woman. I don't want to hurt her, or embarrass her. I want her to be comfortable. More than comfortable.”

“Wanting those things puts you ahead of most men. Wanting them enough to ask, well…” He shook his head. “She's a lucky girl. But you don't want to practice, before the wedding? I'm sure we could find you a girl that's clean, and experienced - “

“No. Absolutely not.” Alistair's voice came out harsher than he'd intended, but he wouldn't hear another word in this vein. “Briony will be my queen. My _wife._ There is no room for other women. None. Are we clear?”

To his surprise, Teagan seemed impressed. “Very well,” he agreed. “I apologise for the suggestion.”

Alistair listened wide-eyed as over the next half hour Teagan attempted to explain the ins and outs of a woman's body, and the secrets to unlocking her pleasure.

“Patience,” he stressed finally. “And remember not to neglect her - “

“Yes,” Alistair broke in. That much he had stumbled on by accident. “I remember. Thank you, Teagan. I can't tell you how much this has helped.”

“I'm glad.”

“Oh, and Teagan?”

“Your Highness?”

“Let's never speak of this again.”

With a small smile, Teagan bowed his farewell. “Gladly.”

 

“You hid them _where?”_

“Under my pillow.”

“Maker.” Briony hid her head on her folded arms. “And how often are your sheets changed?”

“Every day.”

“Nooo.”

“So I came back after dinner to fresh sheets…”

“I don't want to know.”

“Here.” Reaching under his pillow, he retrieved the lacy scrap of fabric and dangled it in his fingers.

Rolling onto her back, she snatched them from him. “Where were they?”

“Right here under my pillow. Folded.”

“No!” she squealed. “I don't know how to feel about this.”

“I think Satinalia bonuses for all the servants.” Alistair stretched out next to her, close enough to smell the lemon scent of her hair. “For their hard work and…discretion.” He kissed her gently. “Don't worry, I'm sure they wouldn't have guessed they were yours. Probably assumed the guards are helping me smuggle in some lowborn hussy after dark.”

When she didn't smile, he drew back. “It was a joke, Bri. You know I wouldn't.”

“I know.” She bit her lip, troubled. “But I've been thinking.” She sat up, wringing her hands in her lap. “If we can't have children, perhaps we should think about - “

“Stop.” Alistair sat up too, his brow furrowed. “If you're going to say what I think you are, then don't.”

“The kingdom needs an heir.”

“Sod the kingdom.”

“Alistair!”

He sighed. “You know I don't mean that. Briony…” Taking her face in his hands, he looked gravely into her eyes. “I will always regret that you weren't my first. I've lain with one other woman, ever, and that to save our lives - I won't do it again for any less.”

A tear escaped her eye, quickly wiped away by his thumb. “Besides, who's to say I could even father a child with another woman? We're both touched by the Blight. We both fought the archdemon, even if you struck the killing blow. You would ask me to lie with someone else - for how long, until we concede that nothing will come of it? And if it did, what then? The bastard of a bastard? Your own father was nearly made King ahead of Maric’s trueborn son - your brother’s children would have more claim to the throne.”

“My brother’s child is dead,” she reminded him obstinately.

“He could remarry. Eamon could have another child, one that's not a mage. Teagan’s children, if he has any. Any one of these would be a suitable heir, if the country is united behind them. We could foster the boy - “

“Or girl.”

“Or girl,” he agreed, relieved to see the spark returning to her eyes. “But I will be with you, and only you. I _love_ you.”

“I love you.” Briony flung her arms around his neck, kissing him fervently. How could anyone imagine he'd need more than this? Her soft lips and warm tongue, her full breasts pressing against his chest. “Alistair, I just want to do what's right - “ He suckled at her neck, and she sighed. “For you, for the kingdom…”

“You couldn't do wrong if you tried,” he murmured against her skin. “You're perfect.” A kiss beneath her ear. “You're beautiful.” In the hollow of her throat, a flick of his tongue making her shiver. “You're wise, and brave, and good…” Drawing aside the strap of her nightdress to kiss her shoulder, then peppering kisses on the soft swell of her breast. “And I love, I love, _I love you.”_

“Please.” Taking his hand, she guided it beneath her nightdress until it covered her bare breast. “Touch me, Alistair.”

There was nothing he'd rather do. He gave her breast a small squeeze, marvelling at the give of her flesh beneath his fingers. “That doesn't hurt you, does it?”

“You think you could do worse than those Maker-blasted corsets?” Briony joked, but her voice had gone breathy. He massaged her in his palm and she breathed deeply. “That feels nice.”

“What about this?” He brushed his thumb against her nipple and she shuddered.

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I…” Looking down shyly, she eased the straps down her shoulders. He helped the slide of the fabric down over her chest until her breasts were bared, tight and peaked in the cool air.

“Maker.” He cupped them, testing their weight in his hands. “I don't know where to start.”

She pulled her shoulders back, breathing hard. “Just touch them. I don't care how.” He circled her nipples and her eyes fluttered shut. “Everything you do feels good.”

 _Foreplay,_ Teagan had called it. Using his hands, and his mouth, _especially_ his mouth on her breasts. He wasn't going to bed her tonight but he could still make her feel good, couldn't he? Tentatively he bent his head to her breast and took a stiff nipple between his lips, moistening it with his saliva. “Like that?”

“Don't stop,” she moaned.

 _Tease. Don't focus all your attention on the most sensitive parts._ It was hard, but he neglected the taut pink bud and instead kissed the underside of her breast, the valley between them, still massaging the opposite breast with his fingers.

“Alistair, please. _Please.”_

He traced a lazy circle with his tongue, finally returning to the nipple and sucking. Gently, but she arched into his touch, whimpering softly.

“Shh.” He soothed her with a gentle swipe of his tongue. “Lie down. Let me take care of you.”

When she was settled he lavished attention on her exposed breasts, learning the right balance of pleasure and frustration to drive her to incoherent pleading. His hands wandered, now tweaking her nipples, now running through her soft hair, now rubbing slow circles on her waist. Her hips began to shift restlessly, one knee falling to the side when he brushed her leg.

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please, yes.”

He slid the hem of her nightdress up to stroke her bare thighs, this time not flinching when his fingers climbed higher. Damp, lacy fabric - he now knew that wetness was a sign of her arousal, not the normal state of things as he'd first thought. How ignorant he still was, a fumbling youth out of his depth.

And yet…the girl beneath him was so eager, so responsive to his inexpert touch. She writhed and moaned at the slightest brush of his fingers. Was this the loss of control she had feared so much? He couldn't understand why any man would think it was a bad thing to have a beautiful woman open like a flower starved of light, to have her hips rising to his hand as he stroked her.

“Are you close?”

“I think so…there, please…oh…”

He propped himself up on one elbow to watch her face. A frown almost of concentration knit her brows, her lower lip caught in her teeth. Then her eyes squeezed shut and a reedy wail burst from her throat.

“That's it.” Alistair rested his face between her breasts, warm breath dampening her skin. “That's my beautiful girl. My only girl.”


	14. The Night Before

“You look wonderful!”

Leliana curbed her natural exuberance, giving Briony a careful hug around the swathes of pinned fabric that surrounded her.

“Do you think? All these adjustments are making me nervous. I'm the same size I always was! Am I oddly-shaped?”

“If you think the dressmakers here are fussy, you should - “

“Yes, Orlais, I know. I'd rather not end up wearing live butterflies or whatever the fashion is in Val Royeaux right now.” Briony gestured to a low footstool. “Please, sit. Someone in here may as well be comfortable.”

The elven seamstress spoke around a mouthful of pins. “Just this last change to the neckline, my lady, then we're done here.”

“Thank the Maker for small mercies.” The woman had spent enough time around her in the past months to know there was no ingratitude behind her light-hearted sniping. “Remind me, what was wrong with it before?”

“Not wrong, my lady. Just not perfect.”

“This dress will make me feel inadequate,” she complained. “I can't compete with perfection!”

“Oh, I think you can, my lady.” The seamstress smiled. “There now. Let me get this off and we'll have the last touches done before nightfall.”

“Oh, really? I was beginning to think you were planning on sewing me into it.” Briony held her arms out stiffly. “Well?”

“Beautiful.” Leliana beamed, enraptured. “You look absolutely radiant.”

“Who needs to breathe anyway? Oh, will you pass me one of those little cakes?”

“In a moment,” the seamstress said sternly. “We can't have you getting crumbs on your bodice the day before the wedding.”

Briony arched an eyebrow. “You know I'll be wearing this at the wedding feast? Bear that in mind when you're finishing off the seams.”

“You'll be too excited to eat much, my lady.”

“She doesn't know many Grey Wardens.” At last she was able to shrug out of the stiff gown, standing still to avoid being stuck with pins as it was eased down over her hips.

“Step out, now. Mind the underskirts, you'll get tangled.”

“Hero of Ferelden, survivor of the Blight. Brought down when she was tangled in underskirts and broke her neck.” Briony lifted her skirts and stepped delicately aside. “What an inauspicious end.”

“Don't joke about such things, my lady!” The seamstress gathered the fabric carefully and passed it to her apprentice. “We'll take our leave - you can have that cake now.” A deep curtsey, and a subtle wink. “I'll leave some room for your wedding feast.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. Then couldn't resist adding: “If you ever tire of being a seamstress let me know, I'm sure you'd make a wonderful torturer.”

“Goodbye, my lady.” The elf departed, shaking her head.

“This is much harder work than battling darkspawn.” Briony sank onto the seat next to Leliana, resting her head on her friend's shoulder. “I've been standing still for _hours.”_

“Such a talent for drama,” Leliana teased. “You should have been a bard.”

“Then perhaps you should be a queen. It's not too late to swap!”

“I don't think Alistair would approve of that.” She twisted to look in Briony’s face. “You seem happier with the present arrangement than last time we spoke, no? Have some of your doubts been eased?”

“Yes,” Briony admitted. “About Alistair, at least.”

“So…” Leliana leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming. “Is he still happy to follow your orders, now he is king?”

“Oh, he has a few ideas of his own as well.” She was assailed by a sudden vivid memory of Alistair's face between her thighs, and had to look away to hide her smile.

Not fooled, Leliana pealed with laughter. “I am happy for you both. Truly, you deserve all the joy you can give each other.” She nudged Briony in the ribs. “Which is a lot, I think!”

“We've given each other joy several times, if you must know,” she said primly, before both of them dissolved into fits of helpless giggles.

 

Some of their old shyness returned that night, realising that their next meeting in this room would be as man and wife.

“I should leave before midnight,” Briony said, curled up next to Alistair on the bed.

“Mmm. Why?” He'd be happy if she never left at all, if he could stay like this all night with his arms around her and his face buried in her soft hair. After tomorrow he could, he realised with a surge of happiness so strong it shocked him.

“It's bad luck for you to see me on our wedding day.”

“Briony Cousland, is that superstition I hear?” He squeezed her, making her squirm and giggle.

“I've seen dragons, werewolves, ghosts and demons and giant spiders and talking cats,” she retorted. “I'm allowed a little superstition.”

“Giant spiders and talking cats are always bad luck, in my experience.”

She twisted to kiss him, the angle allowing for nothing more than a gentle meeting of lips.

“I love you,” she murmured.

“Nobody's ever loved me before.” Alistair rested his chin on the top of her head. “I think I could get used to it.”

“All of Ferelden loves you, silly boy.”

“They love the King. It's different.”

Briony took his hand between her smaller palms, tracing the whorls of his fingertips. “I think Eamon loves you, in his way. Isolde saw it. You think she resented you so much just because you were a bastard? I think she knew how much he cared for you, and she was threatened by it.”

“You think so?” He was surprised at how much bitterness the memory could still conjure, years after he'd ostensibly forgiven the man. “He didn't care enough not to send me away.”

“Men in love do strange things.”

“Do we?” With her body nestled against his, he could see how it might be true. “What about women in love? Do they do strange things too?”

“Apart from having children packed off to the Chantry in a fit of irrational jealousy? Certainly not.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Here I am.” She turned to face him fully this time, sooty lashes framing her wide grey eyes. Lips parting just a little, begging him to taste them and he did, tangling his fingers in her hair and swallowing her little gasps and murmurs of love.

“I want…” She trailed off, hiding her face against his chest.

“What, Bri?” Her honey hair was silken beneath his hands, gold streaks illuminated by the torchlight.

“When you're touching me, sometimes I think about…I want you inside me.” Embarrassed, she kept her face hidden. “So much it hurts.”

He felt his body jerk in response, and tried to cover it with a laugh. “That's lucky - we want the same thing.”

Her fingers trailed over his chest. “Should we, then…?”

“There's nothing I want more.” He trapped her hand in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “But we've waited this long - shouldn't tomorrow night be special?”

“I don't know how special the first time will be,” she half joked, and he took her face in his hands, his rough voice doing nothing to ease the ache between her legs.

“I want it to be special,” he said sincerely. “For you.” He swallowed thickly. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You probably will,” she said, pragmatic. Her hand covered his. “But it doesn't matter. It's just the first time, then we have forever to get it right.”

 _Forever._ The weight of what they were about to embark upon hung between them.

“What should we do tonight, then?” Briony asked, as much to break the silence as anything.

“I'd be happy just to hold you, if that's enough.” Alistair smiled slowly. “Although…do you think - could I see you naked?” He blushed to the tips of his ears. “I mean, I know I've seen everything, you know, separately, at one time or another, and I feel like a pig for asking, but - “

He fell silent as Briony rose to her knees, gathering the hem of her nightdress between her fingers. Not taking her eyes off his, she drew it slowly up and over her head until she knelt bare in front of him.

“Wow,” he said stupidly. Months of palace living had softened some of her harder edges but her body was still firm and athletic, her young breasts sitting high and proud, her curves drawing his eyes down to the tuft of darker blonde between her thighs. “Wow,” he repeated. “You're…amazing. Beautiful.”

Fighting the instinct to cover herself, Briony kept her hands curled lightly at her sides. Alistair’s hungry gaze was like a physical touch, her skin shivering and tightening where his eyes settled. “It must be your turn."

With none of her elegance, he wriggled out of his breeches, mortified by his clear state of excitement.

“You're lovely.” Her hand trailed down the broad, sparsely-haired planes of his chest, followed the lines of muscle leading to his groin. There she paused, fingers just brushing his straining length. “Is that as uncomfortable as it looks?”

“Yes,” he had to admit, groaning when her fingers wrapped around him.

“It's softer than I thought,” she remarked. “The skin, I mean. Obviously not the…well.” Tentatively she stroked him, eliciting more tortured sounds. “Help me, Alistair,” she coaxed, placing his hand over her own. “Show me how.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Alistair moved her hand slowly, spreading the gathering fluids from the tip along the length of his shaft as she marvelled at the feeling of soft skin sliding over rigid muscle.

“It's going to be messy,” he warned and she nodded.

“I remember.”

Focused on the gentle sway of her breasts as her hand moved, Alistair was barely able to choke out a warning before he peaked, spilling over their joined hands.

“I'm sorry.”

“Wasn't that supposed to happen?” Briony frowned, confused.

“Yes, but - “

“Then don't be sorry,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I liked it.” She moved off the bed to fetch a cloth from the washbasin, his eyes following the sway of her perfectly rounded buttocks. To his embarrassment, when she returned she didn't pass him the cloth but gently cleaned him herself.

“It looks much calmer now,” she remarked, and glancing down at his softened cock he had to agree.

“It's not the prettiest thing. Not like yours.”

“It doesn't look much like a flower, I grant you. But I think it's nice.” She bent and gifted it with a quick kiss. “I'm looking forward to getting to know it better.”

“You're a miracle, you know that?” When she returned from the washbasin he held an arm out, drawing her close to his side. “What time is it?”

Briony glanced at the candle. “We have time.”

Before midnight they held each other, fingers trailing gently over newly-discovered skin. Kisses were exchanged that would have been surprisingly chaste, were they not pressed to bellies, backs, thighs, hips.

At last the candle began to flicker, and with a sigh Briony retrieved her nightdress.

“We're going to be married tomorrow,” Alistair said wonderingly. “Imagine that.”

“I've imagined it.” Tying her long cloak at the neck, Briony leaned down to give him a kiss that was anything but chaste. “I'll see you tomorrow, husband.”


	15. The Wedding

The wedding day dawned pale and drizzly.

“It's good luck, milady,” said the girl who came in to light the fire. “It means a long and happy marriage. With many children.”

Briony had her doubts about the last part in particular, but she smiled as she shrugged into her robe. Tomorrow she would wake in Alistair’s bed - let it snow, or hail, or rain frogs if that's what it took to let that happen.

How far she had come from her uncertainty - he was more than her friend, more than a political match. She had never doubted his affection or his respect for her, but to know he desired her and wanted her to desire him…it made her impatient for the night ahead, and all the nights to follow.

There was little privacy in the bathchamber that morning, one maid scrubbing every inch of her skin to a pink glow while another worked a lemon-scented shampoo through her hair. Rising from the bath, she was expected to stand still while they dried her and rubbed fragrant lotions all over her body before she could finally don a robe - not her usual soft wool but a silky thing, cream coloured and no doubt extravagantly expensive. Everything she wore today was to be new, whether she wished it or no.

“Has my brother arrived yet?” she asked the maid who was brushing her hair. Like so many others it was a task she could easily complete on her own, but her parents had stressed to her early on the importance of letting the servants do their jobs - a young girl’s need for independence didn't help families put food on the table, she had been told more than once before the lesson stuck. So she relaxed, did her best to enjoy the sweep of the brush through her locks and not wince when the bristles caught in a tangle.

“Not so far as I know, milady, but he shouldn't be far off now.” Brushing completed, the girl swept Briony’s hair up into a knot that would keep it free of her corset. ‘They’ll send word as soon as he gets here, I’m sure.”

By the time word did come, she was busy being laced into a corset that was surprisingly comfortable, considering the extent to which her breasts were hoisted up. Perhaps the seamstress should stick to dressmaking after all and leave torture to the true sadists, such as the woman currently plucking her eyebrows with a set of delicate gold tweezers.

 _You are a Cousland,_ she reminded herself. _Never let them see you flinch._ It was advice that had served her well under the threat of death or torture, it would serve her now when an intractable hair came free with a twinge that made her lips compress.

“There, my lady,” her torturer said, holding up a small mirror. “Doesn’t that look better?”

It did, she had to admit, the elegant arch of her brows making her look older than her nineteen years. She was powdered, cheeks brushed with a hint of rouge, lips coloured with a berry tint. Her dress more or less assembled around her, the buttons alone the work of two nimble-fingered women and close to half an hour.

How different to her brother’s wedding, she thought, as they twisted and pinned her hair. A girl of thirteen, she’d perched on the edge of a guest bed in Castle Cousland and let the excited chatter of Oriana’s female relatives wash over her as they flocked around Fergus’s betrothed, pouring glass after glass of exotic bubbly wine and exclaiming over each detail of her dress, her hair, telling jokes in their native tongue that made Oriana’s cheeks turn pink. Fussing over Briony, gangly and uncomfortable in her stiff frock until Mother allowed her a sip of wine that made her head pleasantly fuzzy. How hard it must have been for the bride to know that they would soon return to her homeland without her, taking with them all the love that surrounded her that day.

“Would somebody fetch my brother now, please?” she asked, her voice sounding unexpectedly small in her ears.

“There, my lady.” A final few pins secured her headdress. “You look fit for a king.”

Teetering a little, she let them lead her to the long mirror where she paused, coming face-to-face with a stranger. Skirts and gathered sleeves of ivory satin, the bodice embroidered with a multitude of tiny seed pearls. A stomacher of dark Cousland blue turned her comparatively slim figure into a fashionable hourglass shape, emphasised by the flare of full skirts falling from her hips to brush the ground. Fears that the makeup would turn her into something one might find in a back room at the Pearl proved unfounded - it was subtle, a lively flush to her cheeks and her lips a freshly-kissed pink, the merest hint of kohl highlighting the storm grey of her irises. Elegantly twisted hair topped with a silver-and-pearl laurel wreath, the device of her father’s house.

Dumbstruck, she finally realised that the attendants waited breathlessly for her response. “Yes,” she said shakily. “Well done. Could I - would you mind terribly leaving me for a moment? Just a moment.”

Exchanging quick glances, one by one the women curtseyed and exited the room, leaving Briony alone before the mirror. She brushed shaking fingers over the ornate wreath, touched her pink lips, smoothed the ivory skirts over her waist.

How Mother’s eyes would have glistened, she thought. Old Nan with her, she wouldn’t have suffered to be left behind in Highever - she’d have criticised the cut of the dress, told Briony to stand up straight even knowing full well she had the immaculate posture of an archer, but she wouldn’t have been able to hide the twitch at the corners of her thin lips. Oriana would have gushed over the fine embroidery on her bodice, and Oren - how old would Oren be now? Six? He might be here, asking a barrage of questions or perhaps bored, idly playing with the pots and bottles on the dresser. Maybe he’d be considered too old to be left with the womenfolk, would be somewhere in the castle with Fergus and her father, pestering Alistair to show him the ceremonial sword that went with his golderite armour. Her father making jokes to put Alistair at ease - two such good-natured men couldn’t fail to get along, she knew.

When she felt the telltale sting behind her eyes her first thought was for the carefully applied makeup - she couldn’t ruin it with tears, couldn’t let kohl-tinged drops fall on the ivory satin. She’d ruin everything if she cried now. Holding her eyes wide she forced them back, but couldn’t do the same with the sob building in her throat. If she held her breath perhaps, perhaps it would pass…

No use. Her body wanted nothing more than to curl in on itself, held in place by the rigid dress. Instead she found herself staring at the ceiling, choked-back cries turning to hiccups of grief until all she could do was slump into the wall, gasping soundlessly against the uncaring stone.

The door opened to admit a young elven servant, her face blanching before she vanished again. Whispering came from the hall, concerned murmurs and the sound of running feet. Then Fergus, instant understanding on his kind face when he saw her red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, Pup.” He gathered her into his arms, asking nothing, lending her his strength until the shaking passed. “Fetch my sister something to drink,” he snapped over his shoulder. “You should sit down.” Reluctant to let go, she shook her head until he added, “I’ll be right here. Sit down and breathe.”

Perhaps it was the natural reticence he had developed since the events of last year, perhaps the recognition that making her speak could only make things worse. Or maybe, knowing and sharing the reason for her grief, he found no reason to question her on it. Either way she was grateful for his silent presence at her side, for the wine that dulled some of the ache in her chest.

“I’ll just say this once, Pup,” he said in a low voice. “I know why today must be hard for you. But if there’s anything else...if you don’t want to get married, tell me and we’ll leave now. You can come back to Highever with me and explain later. Or not at all, if that’s what you want.”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s not that, Fergus. It’s just what you think.” She managed a weak smile. “Alistair is the best thing that’s happened to me, since...I want to marry him. I do.”

He looked into her eyes for a moment then nodded, satisfied. “I am glad to hear it.” He tweaked her ear playfully. “And I hope you will forgive me for ever thinking my heroic little sister might need me to save her.”

“Only from myself.”

“There’s no shame in grieving, Briony. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Wary of her carefully styled hair, she rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Tell me all about home, and I’ll get myself presentable again.”

“You’re more than presentable, little sister.” Fergus kissed her lightly on the head. “I’ll be proud to walk beside you.”

 

There was a chill in the air of the Grand Chantry, a fact Alistair was thankful for as he stood before the congregation in his heavy royal armour and the padding that kept it from chafing at his skin. No helmet though, or gauntlets - equally impractical for a wedding or a battle, he thought. Hopefully no battle would erupt today, as the sword at his hip was more decorative than useful.

He tried not to fidget, aware of how his armour would clank if he did. His eyes flickering over the gathered crowd, picking out familiar faces. Eamon, of course, Isolde beside him looking wan. Teagan’s easy smile. Leliana, Zevran, Oghren already half in his cups from the way he swayed on his feet. As he watched, Felsi dug a sharp elbow into the dwarf’s ribs and he grunted, snapping upright. Wynne had elected to stand near the back with Shale - it was mere practicality, he’d explained to the golem, in the front row nobody would be able to see around her. Her expression was stony now, but that could just be her face. The only of their companions missing was Sten, perhaps by now returned to Par Vollen...and Morrigan, of course. Best not to linger on that thought now.

The great doors swung open to admit a solemn Chantry priest, swinging a brazier before her as she made her way down the aisle. But Alistair’s eyes focused past her.

On her brother’s arm his queen walked, long skirts trailing behind her and a shy smile on her face. She was beautiful in leathers, he knew. Beautiful in a linen tunic, or a nightdress, or a woollen robe with her hair covered in cobwebs. Or, Maker knew, beautiful in nothing at all.

But today she was ethereal. Queenly, her head held high, every inch the daughter of the Teyrn and the raider battle maiden. She glowed with a light that seemed to come from within, and when her eyes met his and her smile widened, his heart skipped almost painfully in his chest.

Briony had eyes only for him, shining in his armour, lips parted in what looked like wonder. For her? He was the one who was beautiful. Like something sculpted from golderite, strong and gleaming.

She felt Fergus’s hand leave her arm, somehow climbed the few steps to the dais without stumbling. Then there were just his fingers warm over her own, his warm brown eyes locked on hers.

The Revered Mother was speaking - she’d never paid enough attention to prayer, to Mother Mallol’s benign frustration. But she must have spoken the words, because rings were on her finger and his, a cloak of Theirin red draped over her shoulders. And his lips pressed to hers, dry and firm and warm. A fraction longer than was proper, but when she finally glanced down at the congregation even Eamon was smiling.

“I’ll kiss you properly later,” Alistair murmured in her ear. “My queen.”

They rode side-by-side back to the palace, fingers clasped gently between them, the rain no more than a light mist through which weak rays of sunshine scattered tiny rainbows. Happy crowds lined the streets, more flowers pressed into Briony’s hands than she could hold at one time. Grinning, Alistair took them from her one by one and flung them into the crowd where they were caught by maids and matrons and children alike.

“They’re here to see you, you know,” he called to her. “I’m just capitalising on your popularity.”

“Yes, I’m definitely the one inspiring all that swooning,” she shot back.

“I will swoon for you any time, my lady.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and the crowd clapped and cheered.

“Maker bless the King and Queen!”

“Long live King Alistair!”

“The Hero of Ferelden!”

“The Grey Wardens!”

“That’s a new one,” Alistair said, raising an eyebrow.

“Well we are, aren’t we?” Briony smiled at the little boy who had shouted it, and he waved back enthusiastically. “Can’t hide from it forever.”

Turning back to Alistair, she didn’t miss the small flicker of worry in his eyes before he was once again all smiles.

The wedding feast was extravagant, platters heaped high with delicacies, the Great Hall festooned with ribbons and flowers and minstrels packed tight in the gallery. Briony had argued against the waste so soon after a war, but this show was for the nobles more than the bride and groom - to the fickle nobility, the opulence of the wedding reflected the legitimacy of the marriage, and by extension of Alistair’s rule. There remained some in the court whose feathers were still ruffled by Loghain’s fate or Anora’s imprisonment, and imported wines and exotic fruits would go some way towards soothing them.

Briony was happy to sit at Alistair’s side and let the well-wishers come to them, the hours passing in a blur of congratulations and smiling faces. The King was more at ease now, clad in a rich tunic and leggings in place of the heavy armour. She sipped at her wine, but with her glass never seeming to be allowed to empty it wasn’t long before her limbs began to feel floaty and her smile went a little crooked.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Alistair spoke in her ear, confident of not being overheard amongst the buzz of conversation and the loudness of the music.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But it wouldn’t hurt to say it again.”

His warm breath tickled her ear. “You look beautiful, Briony. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The bedding!” someone chose that moment to shout, and soon the cry went up all around the room, enthusiasm buoyed by the liberal flow of alcohol. “The bedding! The bedding!”

“Oh, Maker.” Alistair rolled his eyes apologetically. “Here we go.”

Briony leaned in close. “Finally,” she whispered.


	16. The Bedding

Half-swept, half-carried up the stairs, Briony was finally deposited by the crowd inside the King’s chambers, breathless and slightly dishevelled. As fast as they had come the revellers receded like a wave, leaving her in the capable hands of her maids.

Downstairs, Alistair made his final thanks to the wedding guests before he was similarly hoisted into the air.

“You can put me down now.” The intoxicated tide of humanity propelled him somewhat unsteadily up the stairs. “No really, any time now would be good. Hey - no - hands! Watch the hands!”

“Delivery for the bride!” Zevran, enjoying this particular Ferelden custom far too much for Alistair’s liking, rapped on the door.

“The bride!” the mob chanted. “Show us the bride!” The door was opened and once more they spilled into the room. Alistair was lowered unsteadily to the floor, barely keeping himself from staggering forward and into his literally blushing bride.

“All right everyone. Thank you. We'll, er, take it from here. More wine downstairs!” Ignoring suggestions ranging from the crude to the debauched (thanks, Oghren), he shepherded their unruly guests out the door and leaned against it with a sigh.

“That was mostly painless.”

“You think so?” Alistair's eyes were still squeezed shut.

“They left, didn't they?” Smiling, she crossed to him. “In the Divine Age the bedding wasn't over until the consummation was witnessed.”

“Witnessed? Creepy.” Maker, if he didn't get the image of Eamon standing over the bed out of his mind, this particular marriage would never be consummated. “How do you know all…” He trailed off as her arms wound around his neck, opening his eyes to find her face close and so, so kissable.

“I made you a promise, didn't I?”

Her hair was unbound, falling in soft curls from having spent all day in pins. The robe and nightdress she wore were of a silky material, sliding beneath his hands when they rested at her waist. “You did.”

His mouth slanted over hers and she leaned up into the kiss, hypnotised by the gentle slide of his tongue over hers. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and she moaned, hips canting against him until he was grinding back against her.

“Sorry,” he gasped, breaking away. “I actually just meant to kiss you.”

“I hope you had plans to do more than that.” Her fingers worked at the laces of his tunic. “Or I'll have to call our witnesses back and tell them you refuse to do your kingly duty.”

“Enough witness talk, please,” he pleaded. “Enough _talk.”_ He stopped her mouth. Slid the robe from her shoulders and let it fall in a silken puddle on the floor. Strong fingers spanned her waist, ran up her ribcage to where thin fabric barely concealed the swell of her breasts.

 _Slow,_ he thought, when he would have cupped them in his hands, teased them into tight peaks with his fingers. Instead he slid around her back, tracing long strokes over the curve of her spine.

“Do you like that, Bri?”

“Mmm.” Her cool hands had slid beneath his tunic and were drifting over the flat planes of his stomach. “Do you think we should lie down?”

“Soon.” He tugged gently on her earlobe with his teeth, sucked it between his lips. “This is good.” Planting a line of kisses along her clavicle, more tongue than lips. “For now.”

“Take this off.” She tugged at his tunic.

 _Patience,_ Teagan had said, but he hadn't thought to ask what he should do if she didn't want to be patient. Still, it couldn't hurt to take off his tunic, and his shirt, and thread his hands in her hair as she pressed tender lips to his bare chest.

“You're my wife.”

“I…know?” Briony rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him curiously.

“I mean…wow.” He traced a thumb over her cheekbone, the freckles on her nose. “You're really my wife.”

“I really am.”

He reversed their positions, pinning her against the door and finally giving in to the urge to run his eager hands all over her body. “My wife. My real wife.”

“Take me to bed.” She arched into his hands, finally cupped around her breasts. “We've waited so long. I can't wait any more.” His lips fell to devouring her neck and she nearly cried aloud with the _need_ that coursed through her body. “Make me yours, Alistair.”

He lifted her up as if she weighed no more than a kitten, laid her on his bed - their bed - like she might shatter if he was not careful. But there was nothing careful in his kiss, the length of his body pressed alongside hers as he tilted her head back to allow his tongue to explore her eager mouth.

When he finally drew away they were both breathing raggedly.

“We can't rush this.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I need to make sure you're ready.”

“I'm ready.”

“I mean - oh, Maker. _Physically_ ready.”

“How - oh. How will you know?” Her body told her it _was_ ready, the persistent throb between her legs testament to her need.

“Let me touch you some more.” When she would have protested he turned those puppy eyes on her, the ones he knew she couldn't fight. “For me as much as you, Bri.”

“You've been doing that on purpose the entire time!” she accused. “You tricked me into marrying you with those damned…eyes.”

“It's true.” He smirked, idly stroking her bare leg up to the hem of her nightdress.

“Should I take it off?”

He considered it. Naked was good. But this was nice, too, the slide of soft fabric over her heated skin. The tips of her breasts just visible, or peeking out when he pushed a strap down over her shoulder and took a rosy nipple into his mouth, hearing the low sound of satisfaction she made in the back of her throat.

“Don't stop.” Briony’s fingers ran through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Stop? He wouldn't dream of it. His wandering hand found lacy fabric, pushed it aside to caress her entrance. Slick with moisture, she was ready for his fingers if nothing else, breath hitching when the first one slipped inside her. He didn't push all the way, sliding the tip of his finger in and out, feeling her stretch to accommodate him.

She slid her hands ineffectually over her hips, trying to remove the impediment between her flesh and his fingers. “Take them off,” she begged, and he slid the smalls down before pushing the tips of one, then two, fingers past the tight ring of her entrance, pulsing gently against her walls.

“How does it feel?” His voice was rough and low, cracking on the last word like a boy on the verge of manhood. He wanted to be inside her as desperately as she wanted him there, she realised - for the care he was taking, she owed him honesty.

“I don't know…full? Not bad, but…”

“What if I do this?” He scissored his fingers gently.

“Mmm - it hurts, a little - no, don't stop! Give me…” Her thighs parted further, and there was less resistance to the slide of his fingers. “I need…”

 _Don't neglect her pearl._ Her bud, Alistair secretly thought of it as - a small, tight cluster of petals above the flower that was opening beneath his hand. He found it with his thumb and she gasped and jerked.

“Easy. I'm going to add another finger now. Are you ready?”

Eyes closed, she nodded. He eased the third digit in, marvelling at her slippery warmth. Oh, how he wanted to feel her tighten around his cock like she did now around his fingers. He wanted to push past that final barrier to her pleasure and give and take in equal measure. He was hard, so hard it seemed impossible he wouldn't hurt her.

But she was almost keening now, whimpering with her need for _something_ \- release, he knew he could bring her off with his fingers alone but she'd be too sensitised to want anything after that, and he didn't know how long it might take to bring her back to this point. It was time.

Mouth dry, he withdrew his fingers. Briony’s eyes flickered open, watching his movements as he rose from the bed and unlaced his leggings.

“I'm going to get some wine. Do you want some?”

“Please.” Anything to relieve the pounding of her heart.

Alistair poured two goblets from a decanter on the table and returned, resting for a moment on the edge of the bed.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She answered without hesitation. “With my life.”

“It shouldn't come to that.” He slipped out of his leggings and lay down beside her, his cock pressing hard against her thigh. He kissed the underside of her exposed breast, stroked the silky fabric of her nightdress. “Should we take this off now?”

She shifted, and together they peeled the garment away from her sweat-dampened skin. “Just you and me,” she murmured, fingertips brushing along his hip. “Do you want me, Alistair?”

The sound he made in response couldn't really be called a word, but it was an affirmation nonetheless. He rolled above her, legs resting between hers, careful not to crush her with his weight. Her pert breasts were right there beneath him, begging to be fondled and squeezed, licked and suckled, and that's what he did until she was arching into his touch, strong legs wrapping around his waist. They both felt the slide of his shaft between her legs, careful movements becoming frantic as the friction grew.

“Please,” was all she could gasp, nearly incoherent. “Oh, please, please…”

“Shh.” If he wasn't careful, this would all be over before it started. Taking himself in hand, he positioned his tip between her thighs. “I love you so much.”

“I love - “ Her eyes squeezed shut as he leaned over her. “I love you. I - _stop!”_

She cried out without thinking, the pain so sharp and sudden it brought tears to her eyes. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean…it hurt. Don't stop, I'm fine.”

Stricken, all he could do was stare at her face. “I'm sorry, Bri. I didn't want to - I tried. Sorry.”

“Hush.” She stroked his face, and he thought how odd it was for her to be soothing him. “That has to be the worst of it. We can't stop now.”

“Are you sure? I can't do that again. I can't make you - “

“I won't,” she reassured him. _If I have to bite my tongue, I won't do that to him again._ “Just do it quick, and we'll put it behind us.”

“It sounds so romantic, when you put it like that.” But she was tugging insistently at his shoulders, drawing him back down. “If you're sure…”

“I'm sure,” she said in the familiar tone she used when taking charge. “Now do what you were doing before.”

“This?” He latched his mouth onto a breast and worked his tongue around the rigid nipple.

“Maker, yes.”

He lined up again, this time deliberately brushing her clit with his thumb. “I'm going to push. Do you want me to tell you when?”

“No.” She kissed him savagely, hungrily, and then there was a pain less intense than the last and he was pushing, pushing, sliding deep inside her with a soft sound of surprise, fingers still working between her legs.

“Alright?” Sweat beaded on his forehead, his thighs quivering with the effort not to rut into her like a beast but she felt so good, so good, tight and warm and trembling.

Rather than answer, she rocked her hips against his. And again, until he began a stuttering movement of his own. They fell into an awkward rhythm, Briony surprised how quickly the sensation of him moving inside her became comfortable, even pleasant.

He had to pull his hand away, instead gripping her thigh and concentrating on keeping his thrusts slow and even. It was easier said than done. Every fibre of his being screamed _faster, faster._

Soon control disappeared altogether, his hips jerking and snapping against her, his head thrown back as with a guttural moan he spilled inside her. So much better than anything, _anything_ he had ever felt before. 

Loving arms wrapped around him. Hands in his hair, holding his face to her damp breast. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Did you…?”

“Not this time. It doesn't matter.”

“It does.” He kissed between her breasts. “It matters to me.”

“I don't need it. Honestly.”

“Honestly...don't want it? Or just don't need it?” He looked up, forcing her to meet his serious gaze.

“Just don't need,” she admitted.

“But you could, if I…? You're not, you know, done?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and she couldn't help but return it.

“I suppose I could, if you were up to the task.”

“Oh, I'm up to it.” Still nestled inside her, he slipped his hand between their bodies to moisten his fingers, sliding them over her slick bud. “I want to make you feel like you make me feel,” he whispered hot in her ear. “I want you to come for me, Bri. Can you do that?” The movement of his fingers became frenzied, pulsing hard and fast against her, and she wondered _How does he know what I need, when I hardly know myself?_ She could only breathe in short, shallow gasps. 

“Yes,” she cried breathlessly. Her fingers dug hard into his shoulders, hard enough to leave tiny crescent moons. “Yes!”

And she shattered, a wail that she barely recognised as her own voice breaking from her throat.

Dimly she felt him slide free, but she was still floating far away, blood rushing in her ears in time with her pounding heartbeat. An ache remained between her legs, but not an unpleasant one.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” she said when she could speak again.

Alistair grinned. “I am.”

“You should be.” She felt messy, should probably slip out of bed and clean herself up but he was so warm and solid, and when he pulled the sheets over them it seemed so easy to stay put.

“Are you glad we waited?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I wish we'd done that every day for the last year and a half. I wish we'd started in Ostagar, and kept going in the Brecilian Forest, and up and down the Frostback Mountains, and all around Lake Calenhad…”

Briony chuckled. “In tents? With everyone trying to sleep?”

“In tents,” he confirmed. “And in seedy taverns. And in castles, and ruins, and on the ground, and up against trees…”

“When you put it like that…” She yawned. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Excellent. We'll start in the morning.” Alistair smoothed the tangled locks of her hair. “Goodnight, Queen.”

“Princess-consort,” she mumbled.

“Queen,” he insisted, but she was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK not sure how it got to 16 chapters before these two did the deed, but I hope it was worth the wait!


	17. Morning Sunshine

Used to waking alone, it took Alistair a moment to remember the woman sharing his bed. Was she awake? He stretched, discreetly feeling the space next to him with his bare leg. When he felt only empty sheets he rolled over, alarmed.

Warm morning sunshine spilled into his chambers, making a golden halo of Briony’s hair as she stood silhouetted by the long windows. She had been cleaning herself by the washbasin, but at the sound of movement she turned, instinctively covering her nudity as well as she could with her hands.

“I thought perhaps you'd run away,” he joked.

Briony self-consciously let her hands fall. “I won't run if you don't.” She felt her face grow warm as his eyes raked her body - the times they'd been naked before now had been under the soft glow of torches and magelight. Now she felt exposed, oddly vulnerable. And his crooked smile, the heat in his brown eyes brought a flush to other places.

“Did you have somewhere to be?” he asked. “Or would you consider coming back to bed?”

“I'd consider it…” she said carefully, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “What's in it for me?”

Alistair smirked. “We-ell…I guess you mean apart from not being caught naked when the servants come in?”

She squealed, scrambling back under the covers.

“I mean, they knock first but still…awkward.” He pulled her close, nuzzling into the clean, warm skin of her neck.

“I didn't think about servants.” Briony was thoughtful, chewing on her lower lip. “I'm used to having them around, just not - you know - when I'm in bed with someone.”

“I think they expect to find you here.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Would you prefer it if I hid in the wardrobe? Or I could climb out the window, dangle in some vines…”

“I'm serious! How do we act? I don't…I'm going to pretend to be asleep.”

“Only if you're pretending to sleep…” He seized her waist and pulled her against him, her back pressed against his chest. “Right here. And I'll tuck the covers right up to your neck - you could be wearing full armour under there for all they'll be able to tell.”

She squirmed in his arms, skin warming against his. “Mmm. When do they come?”

“Soon.” Maker, he hoped it was soon or they might interrupt more than rest. “You're not acting very sleepy.”

She turned in his arms, lips brushing his. “That's because I'm not sleepy. I'm wide - “

A knock came at the door, somehow clear yet discreet at the same time. Briony burrowed into the covers as Alistair called, “Come in!”

“Your Highness.” The man bowed, his eyes politely averted from the royal bed.

“Hawkins.” Only the slightest crack in Alistair’s voice made his casual greeting different from any other morning. “Wonderful day, don't you think?”

“Wonderful indeed, Your Highness.” The servant busied himself at the grate and Alistair tried not to think about Briony’s warm breath against his chest. “What time would you like breakfast sent up?”

“Oh, I don't know - half an hour?” There was a gentle poke in his ribs. “An hour, I mean. I think an hour will do.” He pointed at the shape beneath the covers. “She's asleep,” he explained in a stage whisper.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Hawkins replied in a hushed tone. “I won't disturb you any further.”

Briony managed to stifle her giggles until the door had closed again, then emerged from the covers with an unladylike snort. “Oh, Maker.”

“Sleeping queens aren't supposed to poke people!”

“But now we have an hour.” Her wide grey eyes blinked innocently. “What should we do with it?”

His hand drifted over her bare hip. “I don't know…I just can't stop thinking about…breakfast.”

Briony growled. “You!” She pushed his shoulder down until he lay on his back, throwing a leg over his hip to straddle him. “I'm going to…” She fell silent.

“What?” Alistair ran his hands slowly up her sides. “What are you going to do?”

“Hmm.” She rolled her hips, making him hiss in a sharp breath. “I haven't decided yet.”

“Could you - uhhh - let me know when you do?” What had been a pleasant level of arousal when he awoke was fast becoming a problem, not aided by the squeeze of her thighs or the brush of her hair against his chest, or her pink-tipped breasts fitting so beautifully into his exploring hands.

Her head fell back, and Alistair shifted so he could sit up and suckle the pale skin of her neck. His hands slid to the small of her back, holding her tight against him.

Arms resting lazily around his neck, Briony floated in a contented daze. If she opened her eyes she could see golden motes of dust swirling in the air above. Golden like Alistair’s stubble, gently scratching at her skin while his lips and tongue felt so soft and smooth.

“Oh,” he said finally. “I've left little marks all over you. Like bruises.”

“Really?” She craned her neck to see the line of mottled purple leading from the tops of her breasts. “Huh. Look at that.”

“Sorry.” He attempted to kiss it better.

“I don't mind.” Briony rose up onto her knees, encouraging him to settle back against the headboard. “They won't show under my dresses. And when I see them, I'll remember this.” She shuffled closer, teasing his lips open with her tongue.

"I'm not sure I could ever forget this," he sighed when they finally parted.

"No?" Her lips curved in a shy smile. "What about this?" Gently, agonisingly slowly she lowered her hips, sinking down onto his waiting length. At last he was sheathed fully inside her, both of them panting gently.

“Oh,” he groaned, his forehead resting against hers. “Oh Bri, that feels…”

“I know,” she answered a little breathlessly.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” There was the dullest of aches but it was nothing, nothing compared to the feeling building inside her with each cautious roll of her hips. Part of her wished they could stay joined like this forever. But there was another urge, one she did her best to ignore, that was begging her to move faster, _harder,_ towards the end she knew was waiting. “Alistair,” she pleaded.

“I’m here.” His hands cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “What do you need?”

 _Slow,_ she thought. _Don’t let me rush._

“Stay with me.”

Somehow, he seemed to take her meaning. “I’m here, Bri. I’ve got you.” His hands fell to her hips, helping to keep her movements steady. Stroking her hair when her breath began to come in gasps, soothing her back to a gentle rhythm.

“Is this good?” she breathed.

“Perfect,” he said sincerely.

“Good.” Her head fell to his shoulder. “Hold me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

They were silent for a long time but for Briony's plaintive sighs, moving carefully together. Alistair rearranged her long legs, drawing them around behind his back where she crossed her ankles, using the extra leverage to allow him even deeper. With all his willpower he denied his body’s urge to thrust into her, settling for dropping his head to take the tip of one breast, then the other in his mouth.

Briony groaned, her hips beginning to move in restless circles. White hot pleasure was sparking through every nerve, the draw of his lips on her flesh pulling at strings deep within her body, the slide of him within her pushing her closer and closer to the edge. “I’m going to...Oh Maker, Alistair, I’m going to finish. I can’t stop it.”

“Look at me, Bri.” He took her face again, brown eyes burning into grey. “I’m here. Come if you need to, love.”

She watched him as long as she could, eyes finally squeezing shut as her climax shook her. Dimly she heard him groan, finally surrendering the tenuous control that had stopped him from chasing his own end. His hips bucked into her fast and hard, erratic, another unexpected tremor running through her body before she felt him jerk inside her, a muttered obscenity falling from his mouth. So good, how could anything feel this good? A wave of tenderness took her by surprise, so strong it felt almost unnatural.

Alistair held her near, fingers running through her hair as he waited for their pulses to steady, part of him still disbelieving his luck. Cradled in her perfect warmth, her lips moving soundlessly against his neck, he was as happy as he could ever remember being.


	18. Trust

Royal duties had been suspended for the day after the wedding, mostly to allow the newlyweds to spend time with their guests while they remained at the castle. Alistair had left Briony deep in conversation with her brother Fergus. He seemed a good man, and shaping up to be a capable Teyrn. The only Teyrn in Ferelden, since the death of Loghain - the empty seat of Gwaren was a question that plagued Eamon, and by extension Alistair.

As if summoned by thought, Eamon appeared in the corridor. “Your Highness.” He bowed stiffly. “A word, if I may.”

“Of course, Eamon!” Nothing could spoil the king’s good mood today - at least he thought so, until the door to Eamon’s office closed behind them.

“I was hoping that you could explain something for me, Alistair.” The Arl was tight-lipped, his beard nearly quivering with anger. “Namely, how there came to be blood in the marriage bed.”

Dumbfounded, Alistair could do little more than splutter. Finally rage prevailed.

“Are you _serious?_ How dare you - “

“I dare, _Your Highness,_ because you assured me - before official witnesses - that you had already lain with the Queen.” Eamon’s tone was icy. “You disdained royal tradition - and I allowed it, because you swore, on record, that proof of virginity was not required!”

Alistair felt sick. Something special, something _pure_ , had been spoiled.

“So you sent spies to nose around - “

“The castle bedclothes are changed daily, as you know,” spat Eamon. “The royal bed is not, has never been, a private matter. Your supposed pre-marital…adventures…were not common knowledge - “

“Oh, just between you and Teagan, was it?”

“Teagan is my brother! The servants in this palace know their duties, and one of those duties is to report such things to the seneschal.”

“Who then reported to you, I suppose!”

“Yes, he did!” Eamon slammed both hands on his desk. “And I had to appear glad - “

“Shouldn't you be glad?” Alistair retorted. “The Queen was a virgin - isn't that what you wanted?”

“It's a matter of trust, Alistair! You lied to me, you lied _on record.”_

“Trust?” He snorted. “You ambushed Briony. You waited until I was otherwise occupied, you gave me no warning - “

“Because I _knew_ you would oppose me!”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how it is to be then, Eamon? Whenever you think I might disagree with you, you intend to go behind my back?”

“That's not…” The older man's mouth snapped shut. “That's not at all what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded like that was very much what you meant.”

Eamon sank into his chair. “You and the Cousland girl…”

“Your queen,” Alistair reminded him firmly.

“You are children. Both of you. You cannot flaunt tradition - “

“You were younger when you began the Redcliffe rebellion.”

“Yes, and I understood the way things should be done! I had hoped the young lady’s upbringing might make up for your own deficiencies, but it seems she's every bit as wild as rumour used to have it.”

Alistair laughed without mirth. “If you think Briony is wild, Eamon, you haven't met many young ladies.”

“Bryce and Eleanor should have taken more care in raising her, instead of indulging this adventurous streak of hers!”

 _“Enough!”_ he roared. “That is the last criticism I will hear from you of the Couslands. Do you think she would have survived Howe’s treachery, without their ‘indulgence’? Do you think she could have lived through Ostagar and raised an army against the Blight, or struck the final blow against the archdemon, if all her time had been devoted to learning how to be a _proper_ young lady? Which she is, by the way. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland did a better job of raising her than you did me!”

There was silence. Eamon was pale, staring at his lap.

“I'm sorry.” Alistair sat heavily. “I got carried away there, didn't I?”

“No.” He rubbed a shaky hand over his beard. “No, you're right. Maric entrusted you to me, and I let him down. He didn't want you in competition with Cailan but I should have…I should have planned for this. I should have had you learn something of politics. History, warfare…court manners, at the very least.”

“Now you're making me sound like a savage,” Alistair joked.

“You may as well have been. And then I sent you away.”

He looked so downcast, Alistair had to take pity on him. “How is Isolde? I haven't seen much of her lately.”

“She rarely leaves our rooms. She misses Connor.” He sighed. “As do I.”

“Of course you do. Would it help her to go back to Redcliffe? Familiar surroundings might be a comfort.”

“She won't hear of it, and I don't blame her. It was there that everything went wrong.”

“True.” Alistair tapped his fingers on the desk. “What with the poisoning, and the demonic possession, and the undead…”

“I remember, thank you Alistair.”

“Well, at the risk of sounding petty…why don't you take some time to focus on your own marriage, instead of worrying so much about mine? Despite what you think, neither Briony nor I are working to destroy society as we know it. We all want the best for Ferelden.” He rose and placed a hand on Eamon’s shoulder. “It's a holiday, Eamon. Spend it with Isolde, and tomorrow we'll get back to rebuilding the country. Together.”

“You're a decent man, Alistair. I'm not sure how it happened, but you are.” Eamon placed a hand over his. “I should have more faith in you. Both of you.”

“Yes, well. I won't lie to you again.”

He smiled. “You mean next time, you'll just openly defy me.”

Alistair shrugged. “Well, you did insist on making me King.”


	19. The King’s Secrets

“Where do you think it goes?”

“Hmm?” Alistair had been amusing himself with trickling handfuls of bathwater down Briony’s back and shoulders, watching the water bead on her lightly freckled skin.

“The passage.” She gestured to the wall, the hidden opening looking for all intents and purposes like just another expanse of masonry. “It keeps going in both directions. It must lead somewhere.”

Alistair let his chin rest on her shoulder. “Maybe it goes round in a circle.”

“We should find out. It might lead out of the palace. And if it does, it also leads in.”

“Are you worried?” he asked and she shrugged.

“Not exactly. I just want us to be safe.”

“You don't feel safe here?” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest.

“I do,” she said thoughtfully. “But I felt safe in Highever too. We all did.”

“Nobody’s going to hurt you here, Briony. I won't let them.” Alistair pushed her damp hair aside to kiss her neck and she shifted in his arms, warm water splashing against the sides of the marble tub.

“I'm not paranoid.”

“I didn't say you were,” he answered, confused. “Wait - are we having a fight?”

“No.” She sighed, finding his hand and holding it to her flushed face. “It doesn't hurt to plan for the worst, that's all. A secret passage saved my life once.”

“I know.” He was surprised by the surge of anger he felt at the thought of someone trying to harm her, even if the man was dead, his surviving soldiers scattered or imprisoned. “We'll see where it goes.”

“I could go on my own, if you're busy…”

“On your own? But exploring dark tunnels is our thing! Next you'll want to be locked in a dungeon without me.”

 _Well done, idiot,_ he thought. _Distract her from thinking about her family's murder by bringing up that time you were both nearly tortured and killed._ But Briony laughed.

“You know, I had…thoughts…about you after that.”

“Oh? What kind of thoughts?”

“You know…just the kind of thoughts that might occur to someone after sharing a cell with their very attractive friend. In their smallclothes.”

That had been the true torture, for him. But…

“I didn't think you liked me then?”

“Not in that way,” she admitted. “Not yet. But I'm only human.”

“Well…” His hands slid up her ribcage to cup her breasts, warm and slippery from the bath. “I have to say, this is a nicer place to get to know you.”

“Mmm.” Briony squirmed under his touch. “Cleaner, certainly. More private. Less risk of impending death.”

“Bri.”

“Mmm?” She turned her face towards his and their lips met, sliding gently together.

“Tell me you're happy,” he whispered.

“I am…”

“And you feel safe…I want you to feel safe.”

“With you, always.”

 

“Maker, it's dark in here. Ugh, and spidery.” Alistair batted the clinging webs away from his face. “I'm glad we waited until daylight for this.”

“It doesn't help us much in here.”

“True, but at least nobody will hear us moving around in the dark and think there are giant rats in the walls.”

“Maybe there _are_ giant rats in the walls.” Briony moved faster, spying a hint of light in the distance. “They used to get into Nan's pantry. We should have brought Winston with us. Ow! Maker's balls,” she swore, coming to a halt.

“Did something bite you?”

“No, I stubbed my toe. Stairs,” she explained, “and they go up.”

Carefully they made their way higher, moving quicker once they could feel the steps were evenly spaced.

“What's up this high?” Briony wondered.

“Well there's servant quarters on the top floor. And the prison tower, but that's on the wrong side of the palace. Although,” Alistair mused, “we should probably make sure there are no secret tunnels in and out of there, or we might wake up with Anora standing over our bed.”

“What's happening with Anora?” Briony pushed aside a thick cluster of webs. “Didn't you say you'd keep her alive until the Blight was over?”

“Are you suggesting I _execute_ her?”

“Not at all! I just wondered what you had planned in the longer term. I mean, the Blight’s over, and there she still is…”

It was hard to say how far they'd come up the curving staircase, but Alistair was spared any sudden decisions by the appearance of weak sunlight coming from above. At last they emerged, blinking, onto a round balcony surrounding a turret. It was surrounded on two sides by the wall of the upper storey, devoid of windows on this side; on the other side the guard walkway curved around the outside of the palace walls, so the turret was effectively hidden from view.

“Strange.” Alistair tried the door to the tower, finding it stiff but unlocked. “It looks like the only way up here is the way we came.”

Inside, more curving stairs led to a lavishly appointed, if long-neglected, chamber. Tapestries and rugs covered nearly every inch of stone. A kettle hung over the cold ashes in the grate and a teapot and a single cup sat on a low table nearby.

Briony opened an enamelled canister and sniffed. “It _was_ tea - smells more like dust now."

A curving bookcase dominated one side of the room, next to a sofa covered in blankets, their rumpled state suggesting that it may have been used for sleep on more than one occasion.

Perhaps the most interesting feature was the desk, illuminated by the filtered light from long, glass-covered windows. It was gloriously disordered, maps and open books crowded out by empty plates and a half-drunk bottle of what once was wine. What caught their attention most was the drawings - here a sketched fortification, there a trebuchet complete with measurements and scrawled calculations.

Briony picked up a charcoal sketch of a boy - perhaps thirteen years old, fair-haired and smiling.

“This looks a bit like you.”

Alistair stared for a long while, finally shaking his head. “Not me,” he said. “Cailan. And this is Queen Rowan.” He picked up another sketch of a dark-haired woman wrapped in a shawl. She smiled, but her eyes were shadowed, her wrists painfully thin. “She died two years before I was born.”

“Eamon and Teagan’s sister. But this isn't her, is it?”

“No.” He picked up the next drawing, frowning. “It's an elf - see the ears?”

“There's a few of her.” Not only scattered on the desktop, but haphazardly pinned to the curtain behind. “Actually, no - this one's different. Darker, shorter hair.”

Alistair followed her pointing finger to the profile of a young elven woman. Her face was delicate in the manner of her people, her expression not quite severe but serious, almost sad. He shivered.

“We should head back down before we're missed,” he said abruptly. “All this will still be here another day.”

“Was this Maric’s tower, do you think?” Reluctantly Briony followed him to the stairwell, glancing back at the abandoned room - so full of personality, yet devoid of life.

“Yes, I think so.” Alistair waited for her to leave before decisively shutting the door.


	20. Promise

“Are you with me, Alistair?” Briony cupped his neck, thumb tracing gently along his jaw. “You seem…I don't know…distant.”

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the thoughts that had plagued him all afternoon. “I'm sorry. It was just strange, seeing his room like that. As if he'd walked out one day expecting to return, and just…”

His eyes focused on her. Here he was with a beautiful woman in his bed who had promised herself to him, and he to her. What else could there be to think about? He slid a hand down her arm and rubbed slow circles on the back of her wrist. “You wouldn't disappear on me, would you Bri?”

“What a question to ask.” Maker, how he loved the curve of her lips. And the way they parted when his hand trailed back up her nightgown, thumb brushing over her clothed nipple until it tightened and peaked. When she spoke again, her voice was husky. “Why would I go anywhere without you?”

Those soft grey eyes, that warm body had his full attention. He drew on the ties at her neckline, sliding the fabric down until he could rest his face between the swell of her breasts. Here was his home. Here, shifting restlessly under his hands and the press of his body, was all the family he needed. 

Sometimes he was afraid he might drown in her, especially when he pushed inside her and she let out that little sigh of relief, as if she'd been empty before he filled her. 

There was an urgency to how he took her, his face buried in the crook of her neck and his fingers digging into her hip almost to the point of pain. His arm hooked beneath her knee, spreading her wider, and each snap of his hips tore a sharp cry from Briony, her fingers scrabbling desperately at his back.

“Alistair. Alistair!” Reluctantly he stilled inside her and she grabbed his face in her hands. “Look at me.”

He did, his wide-blown pupils sharpening into focus.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No, it's good. Just look at me.”

She gasped in surprise as he rolled, swiftly reversing their positions. His eyes were locked on hers, burning with a heat so intense she could almost feel it pouring in waves from his body. Then he began to move again, rising up into her until her world narrowed to a pair of intense hazel eyes and the spikes of pleasure radiating from between her thighs. She met each measured upward thrust with a roll of her hips, a slow tension coiling inside the pit of her belly until finally her mind burst and scattered, his cries of completion mingling with her own.

“Briony.” He drew her down onto his chest, stroking lazily from her shoulder blades to tail bone. “Have I told you I love you?”

“Only all the time,” she answered, listening to the thump of his slowing heartbeat. “But I like hearing it.”

“Good - you'll be hearing it forever.”

“Alistair?” she ventured after a silence. “Had you seen that woman before? The one with the dark hair?”

Alistair shook his head. “No. I mean… I don't know. Once, in Redcliffe, there was a woman - I only remember because she was an elf, and the only elves I'd seen before were servants or vagrants passing through. But she didn't look like either of those. She was plainly dressed, but not poor.” He sighed. “I couldn't say if it was the same person. It was a sketch after all, and I only saw her from a distance, looking in through the gates.”

“But you remember her after all this time?”

“It was the way she looked. Right at me, and…almost sad. Like I was something she'd lost.” Alistair shrugged. “But I was young, and lonely - I probably imagined it. I dreamed of the King coming to take me away, or some relative of my mother's. And she was neither of those things.”

“Your father knew her, though. Enough to keep her picture.”

“If that was even the same woman. He probably had a mistress in every castle. Perhaps an heir might be easier to find than we think.”

“I don't know if Ferelden is ready for a half-elven ruler,” Briony demurred. “Besides...maybe we just made one.”

Alistair stirred beneath her, his hand going still on the back of her neck. “Will you promise me something, Bri?”

She tilted her head to meet his eyes. “That all depends what,” she teased.

“Don't get your hopes up.” That sounded unnecessarily harsh - he struggled for better words. “I mean, this idea of children...it took Isolde years to conceive Connor, and it consumed her. It changed her.”

“You think I'm going to become Isolde?” She frowned, affronted.

“Maker, no! But with the taint in both of us…I'd rather just let go of the idea.” He stroked her hair. “Let's just be happy with what we have, alright?”

Briony kissed his chest. “I am happy. But Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“If we don't have children…” Her hand trailed down his body, feeling his interest already begin to stir again. “It won't be for lack of trying.”

“Oh, woman…Grey Warden stamina will be the death of us.” Laughing, he flipped her again, pinning her down as he peppered her squirming body with kisses.


	21. Highever Rose

“They're coming _here?”_

It was still so endearing, Alistair’s voice rising to a high pitch of surprise, Briony nearly smiled. If it wasn't for the sick feeling of dread in her belly, she might have.

“Wardens from Orlais and the Anderfels.” Eamon offered the scroll, half a griffon seal still clinging to the vellum. “From Weisshaupt, of course.”

The king’s dismay would make no sense to Eamon. “Of course,” she said hurriedly. “We're the only Wardens left in Ferelden and we brought down the only archdemon in living memory - really, it's only surprising they've waited this long.” She turned to Alistair, hoping the subtle widening of her eyes would convey the hint. “If you weren't the king, they probably would have sent for us. They did have a lot of questions, remember?” Glancing back to Eamon she let a bright smile cover her anxiety. “I look forward to speaking with them! There's so much I still don't know about the Wardens.”

Alistair snorted. “Well thank you very much! ”

She put a conciliatory hand on his arm. “Duncan thought he'd have more time. Nobody could have known.”

“Except Loghain.”

“Yes, well…” Eamon cleared his throat. “Our next matter of business relates to Loghain, in a way.”

“Perfect,” Alistair muttered. “At least we can safely guess he's not planning a visit.”

Eamon ignored this, drawing their attention to the map that dominated the surface of the council table. “The Teynir of Gwaren remains without a leader and bandits continue to harass the eastern coastline. The situation is becoming…dire.”

“What's your suggestion, Eamon?”

“The region has the manpower and resources to combat the raiders, Your Highness. What they lack is leadership. If you were to name a new Teyrn…”

“Well that sounds easy enough.” Alistair brightened, then frowned. “But who?”

“What about Anora?”

Both men turned to Briony, gaping at her as if she'd grown a second head. Eamon was the first to recover.

“You aren't serious, surely? The daughter of a traitor, the woman who refused to swear allegiance to her new king…?”

“To be fair, he had cut off her father's head not five minutes earlier. Traitor or no, she probably could have used some time to consider.” Briony kept her voice sweet and reasonable. “I'd say she's had enough time now, wouldn't you?”

“She could still have her eye on the throne, Bri, “ Alistair said, uncertainty on his boyish face. “Gwaren is a long way from the capital - if she decided to stage a rebellion, with the people of Gwaren onside…”

“Far from the capital means far from noble allies, and as Eamon says she will have bandit attacks to contend with. A good excuse to send some trusted people. Troops loyal to the crown - show the people of Gwaren they have your support and let Anora know you have an eye on her.”

Eamon was shaking his head, but Alistair looked thoughtful. “Well we can't keep her locked up indefinitely, can we? Or we're no better than Loghain. She would have to swear fealty, obviously.”

“And you think she will?” Eamon scoffed. “You don't know Loghain’s daughter.”

“I know she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life in that tower. And I believe she truly wants what’s best for Ferelden.”

“The problem I can see with that, is she thinks _she's_ what's best for Ferelden,” said Alistair.

“She did,” Briony countered. “When she thought you were a naive boy who'd be Eamon’s puppet - no offence, Eamon - but I think you've proven yourself more than that.”

“I have? I mean, I have. Have I?” Still unaccustomed to praise, Alistair blushed.

Briony raised her eyebrows at the Arl. “What do you think, Eamon?”

“Well, aside from uniting Ferelden to stop the Blight,” Eamon said grudgingly, “you've all but rebuilt the capital, seen darkspawn driven from most of the farmlands, avoided large-scale famine…with help, of course.”

“Of course,” Alistair said. “That rubble around the market district was _heavy.”_

“It's a good effort within the first year, considering the setbacks you faced.” Eamon narrowed his eyes at Briony. “It remains to be seen whether you can convince Anora she couldn't have done better.”

“There's a lot to think about, definitely.” Alistair clapped him on the back. “If you don't mind giving us the room, Eamon, I'd like to take some time to speak with the queen about the…implications…before I make any decisions.”

“Your Highness. Of course I can trust you not to rush into anything.”

“And your trust is appreciated, Eamon.” He shepherded the older man out the door, leaning against it for a moment after the latch clicked shut.

“What are we going to say to the Wardens - “

Her words were stopped by Alistair’s mouth, slanting hard and insistent over her own. His hands roamed down her body and in a few short steps she found herself hoisted onto the table, skirts bunched up around her waist.

“Alistair!” she laughed. “What are you doing?”

He drew back to look in her eyes and she shivered at the heat in his gaze. His thumbs hooked in the top of smallclothes. “Have I ever told you I love it when you take charge?”

Briony leaned back on her hands, using her feet to draw him closer. “That's most of the time since we met.”

“And I love it every time.” He kissed her again, thumbs drawing the fabric down over her hips, then rested his forehead against hers. “Do you mind if I take charge for a while?” His soft, low voice made her breath hitch.

Instead of answering she raised her hips, letting him slide her underwear down and away.

“Lie back.”

Warm, calloused hands parted her thighs and she felt the huff of his breath against her exposed mound.

“Hello, my little flower.” Alistair’s nose brushed against her curls and she jumped, her tiny squeak of surprise making him chuckle. His thumbs spread her wide. “My Highever rose.”

“Are you going to - ah!” His tongue darted against her, then swept up her centre in a single broad stroke.

“I love the way you taste.” With a hand splayed on her belly to hold her in place he delved wetly inside her, slippery tongue curling and probing the hidden spots that made her gasp and tremble. She reached blindly for his hand and their fingers entwined, her climax coming almost too soon - she was grateful for the thick door between them and the hall, a cry of triumph she couldn't contain echoing off the stone walls.

“Briony.” Alistair’s voice was a caress, almost a prayer, matched by the gentle reverence with which he pressed his lips to the top of her thigh. “I love my queen.”

She untangled her hand to run lazy fingers through his hair. “Your queen loves you.”

Alistair looked up from between her legs, a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Were you going to say something, my queen?”

“Oh...you mean before you ravished me on this table? Let me think.” She waved a hand. “Wardens something something. It will come back to me.”

“I suppose we should tell Eamon what we decided. Wait…what did we decide?”

Briony sat up and fished for her smallclothes - it felt wrong to be talking about the fate of Gwaren while half naked. “I'll talk to Anora.”

“What if she says no?”

She wrapped her arms around Alistair’s neck and breathed in his clean, masculine scent. “That's the simple part. If she says yes, that's when things get complicated.”


	22. Anora

The prison tower seeming more like a well-appointed guest suite, even the iron lattices over the windows looking deceptively decorative. Had Anora been kept in the filthy dungeon cells beneath Fort Drakon for the months since the Landsmeet, she'd be unlikely to greet Briony with such cool haughtiness. 

“I must admit I was surprised when I received your letter.” The former queen gestured to a plush lounge by the window. “Won't you make yourself at home, Your Highness?”

“Briony, please.” The invitation to make herself at home in a prison, even such a luxurious one, was not lost on her. “As I wrote, I had hoped you might reconsider the offer to pledge your allegiance to King Alistair.”

“Indeed. An interesting proposal.” Anora’s cool blue gaze gave nothing away. “Tell me, Briony, what do you and your king stand to gain from my declaration of loyalty? Are you finding it more difficult than expected to unite the kingdom under the banner of your illegitimate prince?”

“Not at all.” Briony smiled sweetly, every inch the Cousland daughter. “Rebuilding the kingdom after a Blight and your father’s war proves to be an expensive affair - the crown would prefer not to waste funds on the housing of privileged guests.” She made sure the flicker of her eyes took in the rich tapestries, the plush rugs, the mother-of-pearl-inlaid furniture. 

Anora’s fingers tightened a fraction on the arm of her chair. “I am a reluctant  _ guest,  _ as I'm sure you know.”

“Well then,” Briony answered chirpily. “How would you suggest we resolve your…situation?”

Lips thinning, Anora stood abruptly. She looked out the window over Denerim and the hills beyond with something like longing. “Erlina brings me news from the outside world,” she said. “I must admit, it seems your Alistair is a decent and fair king. The people like him.”

“You sound almost disappointed,” Briony pointed out. 

“Perhaps I am. It is unworthy of me.” She turned from the window and there was a flicker of sorrow in her eyes before it vanished behind her cool mask. “Cailan, too, was beloved by the people. It did not make him the leader Ferelden needed. It did not stop his needless death.”

“I met Cailan, Anora. He seemed more occupied with heroic deeds than preserving the lives of his soldiers.”

“Yet you judged my father when he would not throw more lives away on Cailan’s foolish battle!”

“Loghain’s crimes went beyond Ostagar, as you know.” She let a hint of steel creep into her voice. “My point is that Alistair is not Cailan. He knows there is precious little glory in war, whether the enemy is darkspawn or men. And please don't tell me that your father’s decision had anything to do with saving lives - how many lives were lost in a needless civil war, while the darkspawn swept up from the south unchallenged? How many Ferelden citizens did he sell to Tevinter to fund his grab for power?”

“Please.” Anora’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “I am aware of my father's crimes. But he was a hero to this country, once. He deserved the chance to redeem himself.”

“No,” Briony said flatly. “I saw the alienage. I saw the men and women tortured to death in Fort Drakon. Some acts are beyond redemption. I saw my friends and family butchered by the man your father chose to be his general - and when that happened,  _ you _ were ruling the country in all but name! Do you remember telling me that?” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I didn't come here to dig up the past, Anora. Let's not do this.”

“So what did you come here for?” Anora demanded with an edge of anger. “To beg me to lend my support? Why do you need it, if everything is going so well?”

“We don't,” she answered frankly. “I came here to offer you freedom, if you're not too proud and stubborn to take it.”

Cailan’s widow looked out the window again, and when she turned back the icy calm was once more in place. “Very well. I will pledge my allegiance. But only before the king.”

Briony shook her head. “I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“You don't wish to spare me further humiliation?”

“If you regard pledging loyalty to your rightful monarch as a humiliation, then you offer no true loyalty,” she said reasonably. “Renounce all claim to the throne and pledge your allegiance to Alistair before the court, or remain a prisoner. Those are the only choices I can offer.”

 

“What did she say?” Alistair stood up eagerly. 

Briony smiled slowly. “She said she would give you her public allegiance.”

“Before or after you offered her Gwaren?”

She reached up and kissed him on the nose. “I didn't. I thought perhaps it would sound better coming from her king.”

He grinned delightedly. “Oh, you  _ are _ good.”

“Now that's out of the way…” Taking his hands, she led him backwards toward the bedchamber. “Will you let me show you  _ how _ good?”

“Maker,” he said to no one in particular. “I love it when she takes charge.”


	23. A Dinner Guest

A suitable excuse for a large gathering had to be found, and it was Eamon of all people who suggested a coronation.

“A coronation?” asked Alistair, puzzled. “I already had one.”

“Not for you, your Highness.” He looked meaningfully at Briony.

“My coronation? But to have Anora swear allegiance at a ceremony to formally recognise her replacement,” Briony said with an anxious glance at her husband, “wouldn't that be adding insult to injury?”

“We must walk a fine line, Your Majesties, between offering Anora forgiveness and ensuring that she knows her place.” Eamon saw her eyes narrow at his choice of words. “Her place, that is, as the previous queen. A highly ranked noble, thanks to your intervention, but with no claim to more power than the throne is willing to grant her. She will be given all the honours that befit her new station - no more, no less.” He raised his formidably bushy eyebrows. “Provided Your Majesties agree, of course.”

“It is one way of making sure her oath of allegiance is as public as possible,” Alistair allowed. “And if we surprise her with the Teyrnir before the whole court, she can't be annoyed without seeming ungracious.”

Would a viper forgive you for poking at it, if you then threw it a mouse? Briony supposed they'd have to find out.

 

The coronation was planned with Eamon’s usual flair for pomp and ceremony. It gave Briony an excuse to be too occupied for further handling of Anora; that task was delegated to Teagan. Of course they didn't expect his charm to have much effect on Anora, but he was the least likely to give accidental offence, and was good-natured enough to take any of her attempts to manipulate him in his stride.

“I think he likes her,” Alistair confided to Briony. “Don't tell Eamon but I think he has a soft spot for high-maintenance blonde women.”

“She wasn't overly pleased about the coronation,” Teagan reported with a sparkle in his eye. “But I let her beat me at chess a few times, and that seemed to pacify her.”

“You mean she beat you at chess,” Alistair guessed, and Teagan grinned fondly.

“Indeed, utterly trounced me. It was glorious.” His smile dimmed a little. “She did want me to relay a message. She'd like to meet with you before the ceremony. She doesn't wish to go in unprepared.”

“With me? Not alone, I hope.”

“Why Alistair,” Teagan teased, “tell me you're not afraid of Cailan's widow.”

“Afraid? No. I'd call it more terrified.”

“She's not her father, you know.”

“You're absolutely right. She's sneakier than he was. And I believe she'd have had my head off in a flash, if the tables were turned.”

“I admit she has a certain ruthlessness,” said Teagan, again with a fond smile. “Perhaps you could learn something from her.”

He shuddered. “There are some things I'd rather not learn. But tell her I'll meet with her. In fact, if she's willing, have her brought to our chambers for dinner. Briony will be there, in case she's worried I might try to take advantage.”

“I doubt she's concerned about that,” Teagan said with a twitch of his lips.

“Hey!” Alistair protested. “I'll have you know I can be very seductive.”

“I'll take your word for it, Your Highness.” He offered a small bow. “I'll go and impart the happy news to Anora.”

“If anyone should be afraid of being taken advantage of, it's you,” he muttered to the Bann’s retreating back, and Teagan threw him a wink over his shoulder.

“Would that I should be so lucky,” he quipped.

 

“Is the blue too much?” Briony asked, turning in her gown. “Too…Cousland? Perhaps Theirin red would have been a better choice.”

“You'll be wearing red at the coronation,” Alistair reminded her. “Besides, it shows her you're of equal birth, if not higher. And I like that one. It makes your…” he waved a hand. “You know…look nice.”

“My what?” Smiling, she advanced upon him.

“You knoooow.” He drew her down into his lap and nuzzled into her neck, and she giggled.

Just then there was a discreet tap at the door. “Lady Anora, Your Majesties.” They flew apart like guilty teenagers, carefully smoothing rumpled clothing and schooling their expressions to regal insouciance. Alistair looked to Briony, who nodded once.

“Enter,” he called.

The doors opened to admit the former Queen of Ferelden, flanked by a small retinue of guards.

“Your Majesties.” She curtseyed, just the proper amount. “How kind of you to invite me here.” There was the tiniest emphasis on the last word. Her sharp blue eyes flickered about the royal chambers, the rooms she had once shared with her husband, the king.

“You may leave us.” Briony smiled to the guards, who retreated with a bow.

“Interesting,” said Anora. “They obey your orders as they do their king’s.”

“She is their queen,” Alistair said with a hint of annoyance. Briony shot him a warning glare - _don't rise to her bait -_ and he softened, his tone almost teasing. “Surely it was the same when Cailan ruled?”

That would sting, Briony knew; Anora wished to be known as the true power behind Cailan's reign. “I was known to the palace staff for years before I became queen,” she said in clipped tones. “They were as familiar with me as they were with Cailan.” The implication was clear: the two of them were interlopers, a motherless bastard and his scheming wife, while Anora had spent half her life here, beloved by the palace retainers and the populace at large.

“Please,” Briony said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, “won't you sit down, Lady Anora? Let me pour you some wine.”

Anora sat primly, arranging her skirts about her with precise movements. “No wine for me, thank you,” she said, although Briony noticed her wistful glance towards the decanter.

“Would it help if we poured our own glasses first?” she joked lightly.

“Do you know,” Anora answered with a tiny smirk, “I think it would.”

Alistair looked between the two of them, puzzled at their words and Briony’s frown.

“You cannot seriously think we mean to poison you?”

“Why not?” the woman asked. “Having spent so long amongst assassins, and Qunari, and _Orlesians_ …who knows what underhanded tactics you might employ, to solidify your grasp on power?”

Briony sighed audibly. She poured three glasses of wine in quick succession, taking a liberal gulp from her own. “If we meant to poison you, we could have done so at any time while you were in the tower,” she pointed out reasonably. “Which of these would you like? Alistair will drink from the other.”

Briefly, Anora had the grace to look shamed. “Either will suffice,” she answered, and after a pause, “Your Majesty.”

Dinner progressed a touch more smoothly. Her fears of poison assuaged, Anora ate in tiny bites like a bird, and she raised her eyebrows at the ferocious appetite of her dinner companions. “Is this the famous warden appetite?”

“For me, yes.” Briony threw a mischievous glance at her royal husband. “Alistair’s just a pig.”

“Hey,” he protested around a mouthful of flaky pastry, before remembering his manners and swallowing. “It's the other way around, I assure you.”

Anora allowed herself a tight-lipped smile, spearing another pea-sized morsel on her fork.

“So…” His plate near spotless, Alistair wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Terms,” she said bluntly.

“Terms?” he echoed. “You want…to negotiate?”

“Not negotiate. I'm aware that I'm not in a strong bargaining position, King Alistair. I merely wish to know where I stand.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Right, well. It's a pretty standard…allegiance swearing. Plus you'll need to renounce all claim to the throne for yourself and your descendants.”

Anora huffed. “Descendants.”

“It's possible,” Briony interjected. “I know it's not popular to suggest that the lack of an heir might be due to the king’s failings and not the queen's, but unless you know of any illegitimate children of Cailan's -”

“He had none.” Anora’s eyes flashed at the mere suggestion.

“Then there's a chance that you might have descendants, and we need to be sure that they won't pose a threat to the throne.”

“Very well. And the reverse is true? The throne won't pose a threat to me, or my - “ the word seemed to pain her - “descendants.”

“If we don't hear of any rebellions raised in your name, there shouldn't be a problem. And if we do, you'll hear from us. There won't be any roadside ambushes, or blood mages sent to poison you.” Alistair met her level stare.

“I believe you.” She sat up straighter, if it were possible. “As to my living arrangements…”

“You'll have an income. Freedom of movement within our borders. The king’s widow will not be left destitute.”

“With respect, Your Highness, that does not exactly set my mind at ease. Obviously I don't wish to be destitute, but neither do I wish to be impoverished…”

“You'll be well taken care of, I assure you.” Alistair sat back and crossed his arms. “The details are still being worked out but all will be made clear soon.”

Anora caught the look that passed between them, the corner of Briony’s mouth twitching. “Let me ask plainly - am I to be sent to a Chantry? I am the Maker's servant, of course, but I doubt the cloistered life would agree with me.”

“A Chantry?” A look crossed Alistair's face and was as quickly gone - Briony suspected he was annoyed at not thinking of it himself. “Certainly not. There are quite enough terrifying women in the Chantry already, thank you.”

Silence fell over the table. Then, improbably, Anora laughed. “You think me terrifying, do you? Your Highness, you flatter me.” She rose from her chair, and Alistair followed suit. “This all sounds satisfactory. I believe you are people of your word.” Her lips pressed together as she considered the wisdom of her next words. “And I pray that life on the throne will be kinder to you than it was to Cailan and I.”

“We'll be fine,” Briony said, feeling pushed to defend her marriage as well as their leadership.

“Will you? When you find yourself separated by duty, when you have to make difficult decisions without each other's counsel? These things take their toll.”

“There's no need for us to be separated,” Alistair laughed.

“Is there not? Is your queen not also a Grey Warden, with the duties that entails? You may have given up those responsibilities when you took the throne, but she has not.” Anora looked at Briony, her expression almost soft. “Promise what you will, sooner or later duty will come between you.” With that, she curtsied, perhaps a fraction deeper than she had before. “I thank you both for dinner. With your leave, I will retire now.”

Alistair cleared his throat, reluctantly calling, “Guards!”

As the doors opened, Anora gave him a rueful smile. “No need to be embarrassed on my behalf, Your Highness. Soon we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”

With a sweep of her skirts she departed and soon after the servants arrived to clear away the remains of dinner, and any questions she may have raised between them were forgotten for a time.

  



	24. My Queen

In the end it went as smoothly as could be expected. Briony was resplendent in a gown of red and gold, her honey-coloured hair artfully braided and pinned, and when the Grand Cleric dabbed scented oil on her brow and placed the golden coronet atop her head there was an audible sigh from the gathered crowd. 

Alistair watched the proceedings from his throne, his eyes shining with pride. Briony bent to kiss the ring on his hand. Her lips lingered a breath longer than was necessary, and he surreptitiously brushed his little finger against the corner of her mouth. 

“Queen-consort Briony Theirin,” the Grand Cleric intoned before she took the throne beside her husband's and the hall erupted in riotous applause. 

“I think they like you,” Alistair observed. 

“Today they do.”

The Canticle of Transfigurations followed, then a procession of nobles kneeling to pay their respects to their king and their newly-anointed queen. 

Finally came Anora. She was demure in grey silk, her eyes downcast as she knelt before Alistair. When she straightened she turned so the gathered crowd could see her face, her trained voice projecting to all corners of the hall. 

“I hereby pledge my loyalty to Ferelden, and to King Alistair, its rightful ruler.” A murmur of surprise and approval ran through the gathering. “I publicly renounce any claim to the throne for myself, and my descendents.” Her self-control was almost absolute: only because she listened carefully did Briony notice the slight catch on that last word.

“Thank you, Lady Anora.” Alistair rose from the throne and held out his hand; after a moment’s hesitation Loghain’s daughter took it. “Let it be known that you are absolved of responsibility for any crimes or transgressions of your late father. In return for your ongoing loyalty, I offer you his former lands and title as ruler of the Teyrnir of Gwaren.” For a moment shock registered on the woman face - even once her dignified mask had returned, Briony saw the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. “Will you accept?”

“I humbly accept, Your Highness.” Once more she knelt before him. Her next words were pitched low, for their ears only. “Thank you. This is more than I could have expected.”

“There is work to be done in Gwaren, as in all of Ferelden,” Briony said softly. “We trust that you are equal to the task, as few others are.”

Alistair smiled down at her - the two of them were unlikely to ever be friends, but it finally seemed they might be able to exist together in peace. “Rise, Teyrna Anora of Gwaren.”

 

“Do you think we'll live to regret that?” Light-headed with wine, they had finally made it back to the sanctuary of their rooms. Briony looked out over the torchlit streets of Denerim, feeling the new coronet, and her confirmed title, weighing heavily on her head. 

She reached for the circlet of gold, only to have her wrist seized by a firm hand. 

“Leave it on.”

Alistair’s voice was low and dark, and she felt a shiver run through her body even as she half-turned to face him, seeing the feral glint in his eyes. He encircled her waist, pulling her body flush against his. 

“I want to make love to my queen.”

Briony wriggled ineffectually. “You know I hate the phrase ‘make love’.”

“Sorry,” he murmured in her ear in a voice that was anything but. “Let me try again. I want to _fuck_ my queen.”

“Alistair,” she breathed, equal parts scandalised and aroused. 

“What do you say, my queen?” His fingers were already working at the fastenings at her neck. The many layers of clothing between them did not hide his growing arousal. “Can you bear to leave it on a little while longer?” 

“Just a _little_ while?” she asked archly, and he laughed. 

“Hardly - I want you all night. But you can take it off soon...I'm a merciful king.”

“I hope not too merciful.” She twisted in his arms for a kiss, instead finding his lips hot on her bared neck. He pressed her against the wall and rough hands yanked open her bodice. Beneath she wore a laced stay over a silken shift, and this he pushed down to allow his hands and mouth to roam freely over her breasts, laving her exposed nipples with his tongue. 

Needing to feel more of his skin against hers she reached beneath his tunic and untucked his shirt, running her hands up the taut plane of his stomach and over his sparsely haired chest. Alistair responded with a primal growl, drawing at her breast hard enough to tear an answering moan from her throat. 

It became a battle of sorts - the two of them pushing and pulling at each other in a desperate bid to access each other's bodies through stiff layers of fabric. Alistair rucked up her skirts, his lips sucking a bruise below her collarbone and his hands seeking out the warmth between her legs. She assisted him the best she could, wriggling to ease the passage of her smallclothes down her thighs until finally his fingers were coated in her arousal. 

“Maker, you're so wet,” he groaned, sliding a fingertip between her folds. 

“Only for you, my king.” 

Her gasped words ignited an animal lust in him. Gasping against her neck he fumbled with his own clothing, grinding against her in his urgency. She was close to sobbing with the need to have him inside her until there was a rustle of fabric and she heard something tear but it didn't matter, he slid into her like a hand into a glove, so slick and beautiful. 

He paused, breathing heavily against her neck. Then thrust, quick and hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. 

“Again,” she gasped, “do that again.”

Alistair drew back, the slow drag of his shaft making her whimper with pleasure, then hilted himself again; Briony scrabbled at the wall behind her until her fingers curled around the iron grate covering the window, clutching for purchase as he drove into her over and over. He hooked his arm beneath her leg and lifted it up and out to spread her wide, push harder, deeper. 

There were no words now, indeed she couldn't have formed words even if she had the breath, just the sweat of their skin, her reedy cries that climbed higher and higher. 

She wasn't sure when he lifted her, only that her legs were wrapped hard around his waist and each powerful thrust pressed the bone of his pelvis against her clit and sent a spike of pleasure along her overwhelmed nerves. Then she was coming undone, hit by a wave of sensation that arched her spine and made her whole body stiffen and shudder.

“Maker's breath, but you're beautiful when you come.” Still nestled deep inside her, Alistair gathered her slack limbs around his neck and carried her to the rug before the fireplace. He laid her down, finally removing the circlet from her head. Then he turned his attention to the laces of her stay, the pins in her hair, rolling down her stockings and placing them neatly aside. By the time her torso was bared she felt the first stirrings of the return of her desire. When he removed his own tunic and shirt she reached to trail her fingers over his bare chest, feeling his cock twitch inside her. 

“Something you need, my queen?” He raised an eyebrow, and she smiled like a love-drunk fool. He was hers: the sweet, funny man she'd come to like and respect as her fellow warden; the king who'd just fucked her so thoroughly against the wall, his beautiful body gleaming in the firelight. 

“You,” she answered. He reached down and gathered her into his arms, bare skin pressed together and their lips meeting in a perfect dance born of practice. 

“We should get these skirts off you.” His hands roamed her bare legs before sliding around behind her buttocks, dragging her hips harder against him. 

“No," she pleaded, squeezing her thighs tight. "Stay in me.”

The dress didn't matter, what mattered was the roll of her body in time with his and the growing, pulsing need at her core. They fucked lazily this time, worshipping every inch of exposed skin, committing to memory every sigh and gasp, the press of lips, the flicker of eyelashes, the whispered affirmations of love and devotion.

He came inside her the first of many times that night and she found herself praying. Against all odds, Blessed Andraste, please let them have a child. And if not, let this be enough. Let her be enough for him, and he for her. 

Dawn found them finally naked and sprawled in each other's arms, only stumbling to bed when a knock heralded a servant come to rekindle the fire. Later they'd notice with embarrassment how the scattered articles of their clothing had been gathered up and taken away for launder and repair. 

For now they dozed together, as entwined and sleepy as a pair of mabari pups, perfectly self-contained in their love. 


	25. The Wardens

The tunnel was less well-maintained the further they went down, and more than once they had to skirt piles of rubble and duck beneath fallen beams. Briony began to think the secret passage would finish in a dead end.

“Is this - ow!” Alistair bumped his head on a gnarled root hanging from the ceiling. “I was going to ask is it safe, but I guess I just answered that question.”

“It would be safer if you watched where you’re going, you big oaf.”

“Oaf, she calls me!” He darted forward, seizing her by the waist and pressing his lips against her neck in a way that was delightfully distracting. “I’ll show you.”

With reluctance, she twisted out of his grasp. “As much as I’d love you to ravage me in a damp tunnel, love, we have to be back at the palace by lunch time.” They pressed forward, negotiating their way over a fallen stone slab.

“Let’s explore the secret passage, she said,” Alistair grumbled. “It’ll be fun, she said.”

“Hush. I see light.”

“Why hush? Are you worried I might scare it off?”

“You’re certainly making enough noise.” There were more roots now, a smell of leaves and damp earth, and the passage began to climb up towards a haze of green-flecked light. Closer, and it resolved into an overgrown tangle of vines and branches, and beyond that, daylight.

“Safe to say we’re outdoors, then.” Alistair peered around her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you brought your dagger, dear wife?”

“Fancy having to ask.” She drew her blade and sliced away at the foliage, blinking as more light flooded in. “Can you squeeze through here?”

“Oh, I don’t know...a big oaf like me might struggle.”

She grinned and pulled him down for a kiss before twisting through the gap she had made, emerging beneath a half-collapsed stone archway. There was thrashing and swearing behind her, then Alistair was at her side, twigs and leaves in his hair.

“Wow.” They had emerged past the city walls into thick forest - once their eyes adjusted to the outdoors it was surprisingly dim, and she guessed they stood in the shadow of Dragon’s Peak. “Are these ruins Tevinter? Or elven? I had no idea these were here.” Alistair touched the carved columns almost reverently.

“Just as well people don’t know it’s here,” Briony said thoughtfully, “or we might wake up one day to an army marching into our bedchambers.”

He nearly laughed at the image before remembering that there was a time when she woke up to just that. “Should we seal it off, do you think?”

“I don’t know. It should be nearly impossible to find from the outside - it won’t take long for those vines to grow back. And it’s the middle of nowhere. Even if someone were to stumble across it, they’d have to be mightily curious to follow it all the way to the palace.” Briony turned to him. “That slab we passed might have been a door at some stage. If it seemed from this direction to be a dead end…” She twisted her mouth in thought.

“You’re thinking,” he accused. “It always makes me uneasy when you start thinking.”

“If I were Morrigan right now, I would say -”

He interrupted her hastily. “Let’s be thankful you’re not Morrigan, and leave it at that.”

She squinted up at the sky. “Any idea how long it took us to get here?”

“No idea at all,” he said cheerfully, “but I think it’s well past time we headed back.”

 

“We are so sorry to have kept you waiting.” Changed out of her leathers and with the cobwebs and twigs brushed from her hair, Briony smiled at the Grey Wardens.

Only one smiled back, a fresh-faced girl with coppery hair wrapped in a braid around her head. The other two, a grey-bearded man and his fair-bearded counterpart, bowed solemnly.

“Your Majesties. It is an honour to be in the presence of the heroes of the Blight.” Grey beard had a resonant voice and a harsh, guttural accent. “I am High-Constable Adelhelm, of Weisshaupt, and this is Chamberlain Villum, and Warden-Constable Caron, of Orlais.”

“Call me Leonie, please,” the woman offered in a soft voice that put Briony in mind of Leliana.

“Goodness, what a showing,” Alistair rambled nervously. “Can I assume by _Your Majesties_ that we’re attending this meeting in the capacity of royals, not junior wardens? I didn’t bring my uniform, you see.”

Briony pinched him discreetly, relieved beyond measure when he didn't yelp. “Won't you sit down,” she offered, smoothing down her skirts as she did so herself, “and we'd be delighted to answer any questions you have.”

“Delighted,” Alistair echoed.

Adelhelm’s flinty eyes darted between the two of them. “Straight to business, then,” he said approvingly. “Very well. Which of you was it who slew the archdemon?”

“I struck the final blow,” Briony answered calmly. “At least I think so - it was gravely wounded by that point. Might even have been dead before then, in fact - I didn't take time to check, really.”

“The question we have, Your Majesty -”

“Briony, please.” She smiled sweetly. “We're all Wardens here.”

“Indeed, which pertains to my question. Are you aware that the warden who strikes the killing blow…how shall I say…dies?”

“Riordan did say that, didn't he, Alistair?” At the mention of the senior warden’s name she noticed Leonie bow her head.

“He did mention that, yes.”

“But when it didn't happen, we thought perhaps…well, it's been a long time since the last Blight. Records could be inaccurate - “ Villum made a strangled noise of protest - “or, as I said, it's possible mine wasn't the killing blow. Riordan injured it very badly before he fell.”

“Did he die well?” Leonie asked in her soft voice.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Bravely, and, I believe, quickly.”

“Thank you.”

The High-Constable was openly skeptical. “So you are suggesting that Riordan struck the killing blow, was then killed himself, and when the beast died some…minutes? Hours? Later…the spirit of the archdemon somehow located his body?”

“Honestly, I don't know.” Briony shrugged helplessly. “I have no understanding of Warden lore beyond the little I learned from Riordan and Duncan, and Alistair of course.” She squeezed her husband's knee, feeling the rigid tension in his body. “All I can tell you is that the demon is dead, and we are alive.”

The questions took a more general turn after that - the events at Ostagar, their unearthing and use of the ancient treaties. The Chamberlain seemed particularly interested in Flemeth, and here Briony and Alistair were relieved to be able to profess ignorance with a degree of truth.

“You know that Wardens are not supposed to involve themselves in political matters?” Adelhelm interrupted when they came to the recruitment of the dwarves.

“That's what Duncan said, yes. But there was no way to get the dwarves’ aid without taking sides. Believe me, we tried.” Briony anticipated his next line of enquiry. “As to the Ferelden throne, politics came into play when the regent declared us traitors and ordered our arrest. It might have been easier to stay out of it, otherwise.”

“Also he sent assassins after us,” Alistair said helpfully.

“Ah. That would be how you came to be involved with the Antivan Crows.”

“Just the one.”

“And now a Grey Warden is King.”

“And Queen. Briony, that is. I'm just the King.”

Briony wondered if she could pinch him again without being noticed. She fixed Adelhelm with a level gaze. “With all due respect, High-Constable, that should have been foreseen as a possibility when an heir to the throne was conscripted. There were not so many in the line of succession that that sort of decision should have been made lightly.”

“I would not say that it was made lightly,” the man replied, “nor that Duncan did not face a certain…scrutiny of his motives.” Alistair frowned at this but stayed silent. “But there was another choice, was there not?”

“I was put in a position where I had to choose between Alistair and Anora. Either way I would have been involved, and I made the decision I thought best.” She reached for Alistair’s hand. “And I stand by my choice.”

“She didn't know at the time that she'd be queen,” Alistair interjected. “We weren't, um, together.”

The Wardens glanced at each other and appeared satisfied.

“Now, Alistair. As monarch of Ferelden you are no longer duty-bound to the Grey Wardens, although we cannot spare you from the effects of the taint.” For some reason this prompted a glance between the two Weisshaupt Wardens. “You are required, of course, to preserve the Order’s secrets.”

“Secrets. Yes. Got it.”

“And it goes without saying that we expect you to provide whatever assistance is reasonable against the darkspawn threat. We would ask no less of any king, Warden or no.”

“Happy to oblige.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Adelhelm looked to Briony, a grim smile doing little to soften his craggy features. “Because I wish to offer your lady Queen the rank of Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”


	26. Trouble in Paradise

It was a jest, surely. Or a formality - they would offer her the position, she would turn it down as expected, and then she would be formally released from service. “Oh, well I'm afraid -” Alistair began.

“Yes,” said Briony.

“ - that's not going to be…wait, what?”

“Of course yes,” she said as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Didn't you just say that you would give the Wardens any assistance necessary?”

“Well yes, but I didn't mean I would give them my wife!”

There was a quick flash of annoyance in Briony’s eyes. “Nobody is suggesting you give me away, Alistair. I'm not a horse to be traded.”

“Perhaps we should give you time to decide this in private,” the senior Warden interjected smoothly.

Alistair smiled in relief. “Yes, I think -”

“No need.” Briony looked at him coolly. “High-Constable, who is your next choice of Warden-Commander?”

“In the absence of a Ferelden Warden, that duty would fall to Warden-Constable Caron.” Adelhelm indicated Leonie, who silently inclined her head.

“An Orlesian.”

“Indeed.”

“Of course,” the woman said quietly, “I realise that this would be viewed unfavourably by many in Ferelden.”

“You're right,” answered Briony. “At the time the Landsmeet chose Alistair we were accused of acting as puppets for Orlais. The occupation did not end so long ago that people would look kindly on an Orlesian as the highest ranking Grey Warden in Ferelden.” Her calm grey eyes turned to him. “You must see the sense of this, Alistair. It would cause no end of trouble to the Wardens and the throne.”

Alistair felt as though the floor was being taken from under him. “But surely experience must count for something,” he said desperately, hating the whine that crept into his tone. “She’s been a Warden less than two years.” He didn't dare to look directly at Briony, who sat up stiffly at his words.

“King Alistair,” Adelhelm said with damnable calm, “did you not just explain to us how this woman acquitted herself bravely at Ostagar, took charge after the rest of the Wardens perished and united the land against the Blight?”

“I may have given that impression, yes…”

“There is not another Warden living,” the man continued, “who can claim to have slain an archdemon - as many reservations as that claim may hold.”

He felt control slipping from his grasp. “But where…” he stammered, “for how long…?”

“Vigil’s Keep. The former estate of Arl…”

“Howe,” Briony said softly.

“Indeed. A handful of Orlesian Wardens are already stationed there, dealing with darkspawn stragglers. Currently they are under the command of a Ferelden officer, a lieutenant…”

“Gable,” supplied the chamberlain.

“A competent leader and a good soldier, by all accounts, but not a Warden.”

Alistair seized on this scrap of information. “Couldn't he - “

“Lieutenant Gable has no desire to become a Grey Warden, and we would prefer not to invoke the Right of Conscription unless there is no alternative.”

“That is wise,” Briony agreed.

“The order must be rebuilt here in Ferelden. There are some promising recruits, but nobody of sufficient seniority at the fortress to conduct the Joining ritual.”

At the thought of Briony having to undertake that grim task, Alistair’s hands went clammy. But glancing at his queen, all he saw was polite interest.

“We fully expect that once these remaining darkspawn on the surface are taken care of, the Wardens can go back to business as usual,” the High-Constable continued. “Which is to say, once sufficient Wardens have been recruited your job will be largely one of coordinating missions into the Deep Roads, overseeing operations, strengthening diplomatic ties...and, of course, you may travel back and forth to the capital as often as needed.”

“How generous,” Alistair muttered, and Briony glanced at him sharply.

“I’d be honoured to accept,” she said with just the slightest bite in her voice.

“Well then, Warden-Commander Cousland.” Adelhelm nodded, satisfied. “That is sufficient discussion for one day, I think. Shall we meet again tomorrow to discuss the specifics? I believe this afternoon Arl Eamon has organised a tour for us around places of significance in the last battle - it should be most enlightening.”

 

“I don’t like him,” Alistair muttered.

Briony was silent, stiff with rage. It curled around the base of her throat, made the breath come short and sharp through her nostrils. Worst of all, it threatened to turn her cold, measured thoughts into hot tears.

“You can’t really mean to do this, Bri.” Alistair turned his sad hazel eyes on her, but she was having none of it. She concentrated on making her shaking fingers undo the clasp of her necklace, until finally she yanked at the chain until it snapped.

“Fuck,” she swore uncharacteristically. If she couldn’t take off a piece of jewelry without the help of a lady’s maid, perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be Warden-Commander. She leaned hard on the dresser, staring at the broken chain.

“Please, talk to me.” Alistair’s hands fell on her shoulders and she shrugged them off angrily. “Is this really what you want? To go back into danger? To be apart for months at a time?”

Finally she found her voice, thin and strained. “It’s not about what I want, Alistair. It’s about duty. To the Wardens. To Ferelden.”

“What about your duty to me?” he asked and she wheeled on him, incredulous.

“Is that what this is?” she demanded, her voice climbing dangerously close to hysteria. “Duty? I’m to be your obedient queen, to follow you around and look pretty and warm your bed at night?”

He looked at her with his jaw agape, as if she’d slapped him. “You know that’s not what I mean!”

“I don’t know anything. I’m nothing but an inexperienced, incompetent, highborn little girl.”

“Briony, don’t twist my words like that,” Alistair pleaded. “I didn’t mean to undermine you, I just want you to stay. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Oh, really?” She could feel herself dangerously close to tears. “You’re going about it the wrong way.” Sod changing out of this dress, she needed to be away from him, and she had to admit to a petty thrill of satisfaction when the door slammed behind her.

 

Alistair sank onto the bed, dragging blunt nails through his hair. Maker’s breath, how had things turned bad so quickly? He looked around the rooms they shared, imagined going back to waking up alone in the bed they now shared. Knowing she would once more be facing danger, and this time he wouldn’t even be there to shield her. Oh, no doubt there’d be warriors in their ranks, but he’d be trusting her safety to the hands of strangers.

And how to explain that to her, when she already thought he doubted her? If she could only see herself through his eyes, the fiercest, toughest, bravest fighter he’d ever known. No, it wasn’t her ability to survive without him that he doubted. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He had to get out of here, had to escape her lingering scent in the air, the memory of the hurt fury in her beautiful face. He fumbled at the wall until he found the catch to the secret passage and blundered upwards through the shadows. Why didn’t he think to bring a torch? Briony would have. She thought of everything, and already he was a child without her, stubbing his toes in the dark.

Out on the small balcony the afternoon daylight was weak through gathering clouds. Maric’s room was as they’d left it - as he’d left it, as it had been for years. Alistair traced his finger along the spines of the books on the shelf, leaving a thick line in the dust. The chair behind the desk was ancient but comfortable, stuffing beginning to poke through cracks in the leather. Here, at least, his father had valued comfort over appearance.

“What about you?” he asked the portrait of Rowan. “Did you drive him this crazy? He was afraid to disappoint you, even after you were gone.” _Or he just didn’t want you,_ a small voice reminded him.

Feeling almost sacrilegious, he shuffled through some of the papers on Maric’s desk. Here was a small sketch, rough as if drawn in haste: a fair-haired little boy, knees scraped and hair tousled, fast asleep against the flank of a Mabari hound. Was it wishful thinking, to imagine his clothes were too coarse, his face too dirty to be Cailan?

 _He is well,_ read a note, crumpled and creased out straight again. _I wish_

That was all. Beneath that another sketch of the dark-haired elven woman. She was dressed strangely, a high-collared robe such as the mages in the Wardens wore. Surrounding that some attempts to draw her smiling, each of them abandoned.

“Was it you, that day in Redcliffe?” he asked her, but she wasn’t even looking at him, her eyes focused on something in the distance. He wished he had his father’s talent for drawing, that he could make something with his own hands that would remind him of Briony’s face when she was far away.

_Let her go for now. If you make her stay, you’ll lose her forever._

Wherever the thought came from, he knew it to be true. He never intended to cage her, after all. She was destined to lead, to build, to fight - her parents had seen that, and respected it, and he could offer her no less respect.

“Time to face the music, then,” he sighed. He did his best to arrange the papers on Maric’s desk in the way he found them, but before he walked away he left the drawing of the little boy on top of the pile. “Cailan,” he said aloud. It must have been Cailan.


	27. The End of the Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn

The space in their bed may as well have been the distance from Denerim to Amaranthine, for it felt just as insurmountable. Alistair could just make out her hunched shoulders, her back turned stiffly from him.

 _I’m sorry._ How hard could it be to say? And yet the words stuck in his throat. What could follow? Anything that sounded like permission would surely insult her further. Anything he said in praise of her abilities, however heartfelt, would sound like a hollow attempt to claw his way back into her good graces.

Briony felt equally miserable. Knowing she was right didn’t ease her disappointment or untie the stiff knot of misery in her belly. She wished something could be said to erase the hurt, to take them back to the easy affection they had shared just that morning, but the silence between them had taken on a life of its own.

“Bri,” Alistair said finally. “Are you awake?”

She didn’t answer, but he heard her soft sigh. Tentatively he reached out and touched her shoulder.

Briony rolled over to face him, all but her glittering eyes indistinguishable in the dark of their chambers.

“I wanted…” he tried. “I mean, I didn’t…”

“Don’t talk,” she said hoarsely. Sliding closer, she found his hand and pressed it hard against her breast.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Her flesh was so familiar and warm, so pliable beneath his squeezing fingers, but…”I think there are things we need to clear, before - “

“Maker, Alistair,” she growled, “do I have to…” Moving closer still her lips collided with his own, stopping his words with the urgent slide of her tongue alongside his, her nails scratching at his scalp and her leg hooking around his waist, allowing her to rub hard up against him.

His surprise quickly turned into a hunger to match hers. She nipped at his lower lip and he gave a primal growl, pulling her body tight against his and claiming her mouth with equal ferocity. He could feel his length pressing insistently against her stomach and evidently so could she, reaching between them to stroke him hard and fast.

“Bri,” he gasped around her frantic kiss, “if you don’t stop that, I can’t…” His words petered out to a groan as she reached inside his sleeping pants to grasp him tighter.

“Then stop me,” she hissed.

Oh, he wanted her to stop. Wanted not to spend himself right away like a callow boy, to savour every second of her firm body writhing against his, her soft lips and hot tongue and sharp teeth and clever, clever fingers. Those fingers, sliding and grasping, so close...with an effort he grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she released him and rolling her to pin it to the mattress. Her free hand grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him down into another savage kiss and it was all he could do not to tear at her nightgown and devour her perfect breasts. Instead he loosened the ties at her neck, hands trembling with the effort of restraint, until he could part the fabric and explore her bared chest with his calloused hands.

As soon as his finger and thumb closed around one hard nipple, the tenor of her breathing changed. The hand on his neck guided him down and he understood the message, licking, sucking and biting his way down the column of her throat to the enticing curves of her torso.

Briony keened when his mouth closed over the peaked tip of one breast, the steady pull of lips and tongue sending fire through her nerves. It was nearly perfect, but not enough, a growing need beneath her belly crying out for more, more, lower, deeper. She shifted restlessly beneath him, shocked at the piteous whines that escaped her throat, nails scraping and fingers tugging at his hair until he retaliated with the scrape of teeth and oh, _Maker_ , how she shuddered and arched into his touch.

Alistair needed no further direction. Sliding her nightgown down over her ankles, he hoisted her legs over his shoulders and bent to suck at her swollen bud.

It was too much, an intensity of feeling that was almost painful. Her back bowed as two broad fingers pushed inside her, twisting and pressing, the calloused pads seeking out the spot that made her cry out higher and higher until it seemed only her white-knuckled grip on the sheets kept her from flying up to the ceiling. The rhythm of his attentions changed, the tongue between her thighs mimicking its earlier movement in her mouth, stroking and curling, wriggling its way between his fingers. Then delicate flicks, sweeping circles. Briony writhed and whimpered, begging wordlessly for release. His fingers kept pumping in and out and his lips closed over her clit again and _drew_ and she was flying apart, the edges of her vision turning white and her entire body shuddering.

She felt as though she had just come up from drowning, disoriented and gasping for air. Alistair drew her into his arms and in the haze of post-orgasmic bliss her anger was nearly, _nearly_ forgotten.

“I love you,” he murmured, shocked when she answered with a sharp shove to his chest.

“Don't you dare!” she spat, wriggling free of his embrace to sit up. “Don't pretend everything's suddenly normal again after what you said today.”

“I didn't mean it, I didn't think!” He grabbed at her in desperation, her shoulders first and then her wrists when she wouldn't stop flailing at him.”Maker, Briony, stop slapping at me! We both know you could kill me in five different ways if you really wanted to.” The absurdity of it would have made him laugh if he couldn't sense her body humming with anger. “What do you want me to say? I was scared. I don't want you to go, of course I don't, but I understand why you must.”

She was silent for a moment, her chest heaving. “Let go,” she said at last. Reluctantly he dropped her wrists, bracing himself for another onslaught.

There was one, but not what he expected. Briony’s arms wound tight around his neck, her lips once more devouring his as she shifted to straddle his waist. “I'm confused,” he gasped as her teeth scraped down his neck. “Are we still fighting?”

“Yes.” She pushed him onto his back, nails raking down his chest hard enough to make him hiss.

“Oh,” he said, and at the next roll of her hips, “ohhhhh.” Then her mouth captured his again, swallowing his moans as she ground him into submission, nipping none too gently along his collarbone.

“Here.” She grasped his shaft and guided him between her legs, both of them gasping in relief as she sank all the way onto his waiting length. He couldn't see her but he knew every inch of her body by now, could picture the flushed skin down to her rosy nipples, her honey-blonde hair cascading around her shoulders, her grey eyes half-lidded and kiss-swollen lips parted with desire. Could feel her strong thighs beneath his palms and, moving upwards, the smooth curve of her buttocks, her taut, flat belly and finally her breasts, those perfectly formed breasts that fit so well in his hands.

“Harder,” she begged, covering his hands with her own and digging his fingers into her firm flesh. “Touch me, Alistair.” Her walls fluttered and clenched around him and his hands squeezed convulsively. Encouraged her low moan of approval he dragged his thumbs hard over her nipples, rolled and pinched and twisted them between thumbs and forefingers until they were stiff and no doubt reddened from his attentions. He'd never dreamed of being so rough with her before but she was gasping and squeezing at his wrists, gripping around him tight and wet, _Maker,_ so wet, bearing down harder with each sinuous roll of her hips.

“I'm coming,” he gasped, and she steered his fingers between her legs, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise and the other drawing erratic circles around the apex of her sex. She came with a high, drawn-out scream the likes of which he'd never heard before but would very much like to hear again. Particularly if, like this time, it ended in the broken whimpering of his name, the rhythm of her movements becoming slow and jerky even while he urgently chased his own end. Alistair used his feet braced on the mattress to thrust up into her heat, hard and sharp until stars burst behind his eyes, his cock twitching and pulsing as he flooded her with his seed.

“Maker's breath.” He drew her down on top of him, her slowing breath warm against his chest as he stroked her back. “What was that?”

“The end of the fight,” she murmured.

“Perhaps we should fight more often.”

“No.” Her hair brushed his face as she stretched to kiss him on the forehead. “Let's not.”


	28. The Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over 100 kudos! Woohoo, thanks everyone <3

Briony sat by the window and looked down on Alistair’s city. Their city. She would miss this view, the tangle of narrow, dirty streets hidden beneath the tiled rooftops and the ocean glittering in a way that made one forget the stench and chaos of the harbour.

Denerim wasn't going anywhere, she reminded herself. It would still be here with its cutpurses and back alley thugs, the taciturn merchants and barely competent guards and the faint, pervasive smell of garbage. The palace would be here, the view unchanged, and Alistair…

“Bri?” the familiar voice called. “Love?” He emerged damp and tousled from the bathing chamber, and once again she was struck by his beauty, all bronze and gold and open, handsome features. “There you are,” he said with the smile that made her heart skip. “You were so quiet out here, I thought you might have left without me.”

“I'm not so eager to see the back of you,” she said with a forced smile.

“Really? I thought you liked my back.” His flex coaxed a reluctant laugh from Briony, even as it threatened to turn into a sob. Her king became sombre, kneeling and taking her hands in his. “It's not forever,” he reminded her.

“That's not it.” Swallowing hard, she looked back out at the ocean. “Not all of it, anyway. I…it's stupid. I'm fine.”

“Tell me,” he insisted. “You haven't been yourself for days now.”

“You'll be annoyed.” She met his eyes, brown lit with flecks of gold in the morning light. “I promised…”

“Bri.” Alistair cupped her cheek. “The longer you wait to tell me, the worse things I'll imagine.”

Her fingers twined through his, solid and comforting against her skin. At least he was here to soothe her hurt, she reflected. The next time, or the time after, she might be alone.

“My courses didn't come on time. After a few days I started to think that perhaps…” Her voice grew thick. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Oh, my love.” Fervently, he kissed the backs of her hands. “It's not stupid at all. It's not fair that we let you walk into this, Duncan and I, without truly knowing the consequences.”

She sniffed. “That wasn't your choice, Alistair. And what would I have done with that knowledge? What does a homeless Grey Warden recruit want with children? If I cared for anything beyond the Blight, it was seeing Rendon Howe’s head on a pike.”

“Less cute than a child, certainly,” Alistair mused. “But he'd be rather cheaper to feed and clothe. The smell might -”

“Alistair!” Briony laughed, but in truth the spectre of Howe loomed large over the coming journey. After visiting reconstruction efforts in Lothering they would journey through the Bannorn to Highever, the scene of his betrayal. Then Amaranthine where she must pick over the bones of his former estate.

Not for the first time, she wondered where his children had ended up - Thomas, she knew, died in the Blight but she had had no news of Delilah or Nathaniel. Both were older than Briony and she remembered Delilah as a nice enough girl, more vivacious when her father wasn't present. Nathaniel had been of an age with Fergus, but solemn and solitary.

“Bri.” Alistair’s concerned expression broke her chain of thought. “You know it's not all you…I mean if anything it's more my fault. I've been carrying the taint longer.”

“There's no fault,” she said firmly. “Unless you want to blame the Wardens, or better yet, the darkspawn. I won't have us competing over who bears more of the blame for something that is beyond our control. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Warden-Commander!” Alistair rose to his feet, pulling her up with him and into the circle of his arms. “I just hate to think of you blaming yourself. Of course I hate to think of you blaming me, as well, but if it's a choice between the two…”

“No blame.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, memorising the clean, warm smell of his freshly washed skin. “No regrets for what we couldn't have changed. The past is done and every terrible thing that happened led us here, to each other.” She pressed a kiss to his damp neck. “One good thing about the Blight is that it brings people together, I remember someone telling me once.”

“Who said that?” Alistair mused. “He sounds very wise. And possibly…handsome?”

“Oh, some mad Warden at Ostagar. What was his name? Alexander? Albert? Algernon? I remember thinking him quite the fool.”

“The poor man,” he said sadly. “He was probably just trying to impress a pretty girl. And all he had to practice on was you.”

She laughed. “An angry orphan prone to sudden fits of violence.” Could it have been so little time since that day, since that hurt, bitter, traumatised child had stumbled into Ostagar? It seemed several lifetimes had passed.

Alistair kissed the top of her head. “You just described most of my friends. But no…you, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.”

“How ever am I going to survive in Amaranthine without your constant flattery?” Briony wound her arms around his neck, gently touching her nose to his.

“You won't. You'll have to make regular trips home so I can stroke your ego.” His hands gripped her bottom, making her rise onto tiptoes with a little squeak of surprise. “Amongst other things.”

Their lips met, slow but hungry, and when they finally drew apart they were half breathless. “I miss you,” she murmured.

“You haven't even left yet.”

“I don't care - it hurts already.” And it did, a dull, hollow ache in her chest.

“Once I'm out of sight you'll forget all about me,” Alistair promised. “You'll be having far too much fun giving orders and killing darkspawn.”

“But those are the very things that remind me of you,” she retorted, ruffling his wet hair.

“Of course, I forgot what a hopeless romantic you are.” He picked her up and swung her in a half circle before reluctantly letting go of her waist. “I suppose we'd better get underway if we're to make it to South Reach by nightfall. Then again, if we arrive very late we may be able to avoid Arl Bryland’s awful daughter…”

“I've told Winston he's allowed to bite her if she deserves it,” Briony said airily. “I doubt Leonas will object.”

“Winston is definitely coming, then?” Hearing his name, the Mabari had padded in from the next room. “Will he ride in the carriage?”

“He'd hate that,” she said, bending to scratch the thick ruff of his neck. “As would we, if he's been given mutton bones again.” Winston whined in protest. “You know it's true, boy. Save that toxic cloud for Lady Habren. Stretch your legs, and if you get tired you can ride up top - you'd like that, wouldn't you?” He wriggled happily at the prospect, tongue lolling.

This was it, then. Their trunks were packed and waiting downstairs, and when Alistair finally returned it would be without her.

 

Briony’s head bounced softly on Alistair’s shoulder as the carriage rattled along, and he rested a hand on her neck to hold her stable. It had been a while since he'd been able to feel his arm but it didn't matter - he was content to have her close while he still could, soft and warm against him.

In sleep, she didn't look much like the Warden-Commander, the fabled Hero of Ferelden. She seemed even younger than her twenty years with the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her lashes faintly fluttering against her cheek. He breathed in her lemony, floral scent, his heart swelling with an affection so strong as to be almost painful.

“I love you, Briony Cousland,” he murmured into her silken hair. “I couldn't have imagined having anything so perfect before I met you, and I'm amazed every day that you agreed to be my wife. I could never wish for more.” The years of believing himself unwanted and unlovable had taken a toll on the young Alistair, shaped him into a man who hid his pain behind jokes and was quick to pre-empt rejection. “I'd do anything to give you what you want, but all I can do is let you down. I'm sorry, my love.”

Startled at the touch of slender fingers on his face, he looked down to see her troubled grey eyes staring back at him. “You have never let me down,” she said, her voice shaking and her lips beginning to tremble. “Never. With you I have more than I could ever need or deserve.”

“You deserve the world,” he said with conviction.

“With you, I have it.” She pulled his face down for a kiss, as soft as it could be with the carriage jolting them. “I'll come back to you Alistair, I swear it. And we won't need children to be happy. We have enough.”

“Tell me you'll be safe,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

“Of course I'll be safe. We're heroes, remember?” Briony’s words were light, but her eyes shone with a solemn promise. “As if I would let anything keep me from coming back to you, my love.”

 


	29. Night Terrors

“Alistair.”

It was Briony’s whisper that woke him, before he heard Winston’s low growl.

“Winston!” he muttered. “Be quiet, you blockhead.”

The Mabari whined softly and rested his head on his paws, but a second later he was alert again, gaze fixed on the bedroom door. A soft rumble came from the back of his throat.

Rubbing his eyes in annoyance, Alistair sat up. Briony’s childhood room was a mass of shadows, but a sliver of torchlight showed him where the door was.

“Fine,” he said to Winston, swinging his feet to the cold floor. “If you'd rather sleep outside -”

“Don't.” It was then he heard the note of panic in Briony’s voice. “Don't open the door, Alistair, please.”

“Bri?” Fumbling in the dark he found her hand, clenched tightly in the sheets. “What's the matter?”

“Don't open it,” she repeated. “Please.”

Sensing her panic Winston had risen from the floor, beginning to pace as he continued growling.

“It's nothing, Bri. He's heard a rat, or imagined he did. He's just being a dog.”

She shook her head violently.

“Did you hear something?” he asked gently.

“No. But I didn't…I didn't…” Her voice caught.

“Didn't what?” Alistair pulled her close, only now noticing how she trembled. “Tell me, love.”

“Last time,” she whispered. “I didn't hear anything last time, and then…”

Now wasn't the time for reason, he sensed. She was back in the events of that night, frozen between fleeing and fighting, barely able to breathe.

“Down, Winston,” he admonished. “You're not helping.” With a huff and a whine, the Mabari thudded to the floor.

Alistair drew his terrified wife into his arms, stroking the length of her spine. She had faced down enemies that would freeze the blood of lesser warriors, but here and now, against these demons, she was helpless. It broke his heart.

“You know where we are, Bri?”

“Where…? Highever,” she replied haltingly. “Castle Cousland.”

“And who else is here, in the castle?”

“Fergus.” Her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt. “Servants. His soldiers, and our people.”

“Anybody who would hurt us?”

“I don't think so. But…”

“And if they made it this far, they'd have three of the most fearsome warriors in Ferelden to deal with.” Winston’s stubby tail beat against the floor. “They'd have to be mad to come against us. Especially you, my hero.” He kissed her bare shoulder where the nightgown had slipped, relieved to feel some of the stiffness had gone out of her body. “Because what would you do to them?”

“I'd gut them.” Her eyes glittered with feverish intensity in the darkness. “I'd let them bleed out slowly, and I'd have their heads stuck on pikes and paraded through the town, and their bodies fed to the pigs instead of burned so they'd never find peace at the Maker's side -”

“Alright, alright,” he laughed. “So you see how foolish they would have to be to threaten my queen. I'm a little nervous myself after that.”

“I should go out there.” Briony sat upright and threw back the covers, leaving Alistair scrambling after her. She retrieved her daggers from the trunk at the end of the bed and made her way to the door, Winston at her heels.

“Briony?”

“Shh, Alistair, I'm trying to listen.”

“Just don't scare the servants, alright? And try not to attack any of our own guards. They're paid to defend us, not defend themselves from us.”

It was impossible to tell if she had listened as she cracked open the door.

“Your Majesties?” Startled by the appearance of the King and Queen in their nightclothes, the guards at the end of the corridor sprang to attention. “Is something amiss?” asked the senior of the two.

“Terribly sorry to bother you,” Alistair apologised, relieved to see Briony had quickly concealed her weapons in the folds of her nightgown. “The dog wanted to be let out.”

“I'm not surprised, Your Majesty.” The man shuddered. “Seen rats around here the size of terriers.”

Winston chose that moment to launch into the shadows, a defensive shriek cut short with a single shake of his enormous head. He emerged grinning and dropped the oversized carcass at his lady’s feet.

“That is truly disgusting,” said Alistair, at the same time Briony smiled and said “Good boy.”

“Andraste preserve us!” the younger guard swore. “You don't see those in Denerim.”

“They come up from the Wilds.” Briony smiled almost fondly at the dead rat. “I don't suppose…”

“We'll get rid of it for you, Your Majesty.”

“You have our gratitude. Now…” Alistair turned to his wife, “shall we go back to bed? And perhaps leave our fearless vermin-slaying bodyguard out here?”

Winston had already begun to patrol along the walls, sniffing loudly. Briony nodded to the guards before retreating back to the bedchamber and Alistair followed directly after.

“Are you alright?” he asked when the heavy door closed behind them. “You seemed a little -”

He was cut off, surprised by the sudden press of her mouth on his. She took his lower lip between her teeth, melting her body against him as her arms wound tightly around his neck. It was a hard, hungry kiss, tinged with relief and urgency, and he met it with the same fierce tenderness. 

“We're safe,” she said finally, resting her head in the crook of his neck. “Nobody's going to hurt us.”

“I told you.” Alistair stroked her head, marvelling as always at the silky softness of her hair.

“I thought for a moment…I woke up to him growling, and it was just like…”

“I know, love, I know.”

“Alistair.” She kissed him again desperately, her warm lips and tongue driving him to distraction, and he mapped the curves of her body through her nightgown, letting her guide his hands beneath the neckline to cup her breasts.

“I love you,” he murmured as he rolled her stiffening nipples with calloused thumbs. “I'd never let anything happen to you.” _You won't have any control over that soon,_ a small voice reminded him before being lost in the friction between their restlessly moving hips, the blunt scratch of her nails on his scalp.

Briony drew him down onto the bed, her fears forgotten. He loved to give her what she wanted - the slide of his mouth over her neck and the swell of her breasts, his fingers between her legs, pulsing against her until her soft little cries broke off in a gasp.

“Please,” she whispered, “I need…Maker, Alistair, please…” Their sighs of relief mingled when at last he pushed inside her.

“You scared me.” Resting on his elbows, Alistair cupped her face in his hands. “You were somewhere else.”

She shook her head. “I was here, I just wasn't…now.” Her legs tightened around his waist. “It's over, I promise. I'm with you.”

“And I'm with you.” He wrapped his hands around her wrists, covering every inch of her body with his. He wanted her to feel him close, to feel his heat, his strength, to fill her senses with only him. “Always, wherever you go.”

“Give me something to think about,” she breathed in his ear. “When I'm alone at night. When I miss you.”

“I can do that.” He began to move and she moved with him, heels digging into the backs of his legs as she strove to take him deeper. Maker, he'd remember this on his lonely nights too, would feel so clearly the press of her sweat-slicked breasts against his chest and her hot breath on his neck. And with it, the image of her alone in some drafty room in Vigil's Keep, thinking of this moment too as her fingers ran down her belly and between her thighs…

She peaked just before he did, her wail of ecstasy still trailing off when he collapsed, softening in her warmth. “Yes,” she murmured against his damp skin. “I'll keep that with me. I'll feel you here inside me.”

“Don't forget that I told you how much I love you.”

“How much?” Her hands stroked his back.

“This much,” he answered, kissing her neck. “And this much,” trailing his lips along her collarbone, “and this much…”

“Alistair!” Briony giggled and squirmed beneath him, and it wasn't long before they were once more creating memories for the long absence ahead.

 

The wind blew hard along the cliff tops, lashing the branches of trees and whipping strands of Briony’s hair into her eyes.

“Are you sure you don't want to keep it?” she asked. “It was the last thing you had to remember him by.”

Alistair gazed up at the griffon-emblazoned shield, set into a tall column of granite overlooking Highever. “I wouldn't get any use out of it. Besides, it will be here.” He squeezed her hand. “He'll never be forgotten as long as this stands.”

“Longer.” She smiled ruefully. “All those years in service and I'm the one they call Hero. I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for Duncan.”

“He'd be proud of you,” Alistair said fondly and she looked up at him, all bronze and gold in his ceremonial armour, the picture of a warrior king.

“He'd be prouder of you, King Alistair. I know I am.”

A shadow crossed his good-natured face. “Can I do this without you, Bri?”

She cupped his cheek, rising to press her nose to his. “You can do _anything,”_ she told him fiercely, “and you won't be without me. I'll be half a day away by raven, less than a week by horse. And I'll be here.” She rested a hand on his breastplate. “Just as you'll be with me, my love.”

“When you say it, I believe it.” Alistair scowled at his retinue, waiting patiently a few yards back. “Are you sure you have to go now? I could ride with you as far as the town…”

“The guide is waiting for the Warden-Commander, not the King and all his guard.” Briony put a calm she did not feel into her smile. “I'll get settled in Amaranthine and I'll see you there in a day or two. This isn't goodbye.”

She saw him swallow past the lump in his throat. “I won't say it then.”

“Good.” Better go now, or she'd throw herself into his arms and they'd be there all day. She turned and vaulted onto her horse in a fluid movement. “Soon, Your Majesty. Winston, stay with Alistair.”

When she looked back Alistair had one hand raised, the other resting on the Mabari’s head. _Soon_ , she promised him. _I'll see you again soon._


End file.
